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.'" 4 ' - 



Its all up to 
voii. Son... 

Si'N ; Bill you'll hi' shill if I stiiil- 
ird medicine, icoiildii't you i' 

OxD: Naturally, .'^on. But it isn’t the 
easiest life, you know ... 

So.N : Thill's nol llie point. Dad ... 

D\d; . . . seven years of college, and 
then you’ve only begun to 
study ... 

Son: Rut you'd do it again, Dad I 

D\d: . .. and you won’t make a lot 
of money . . . scarcely a living 
at first. 

Son: H e’ce always had enough. 
.And it’s not the money. 

Oad: What’s more, there’s little time 
lor plea sure... not even enough 
for home life ... 

Son : } oil and mother are the hap¬ 
piest people / know. 

D\u: ...because people don’t always 
get sick during office hours. 

So.N: Tve already decided. Dad. 

You forget my father hap¬ 
pens to be a doctor! 

iTiiS More Doctors smoke camels 


n J. K-„...ldjT'.: 

W' • “iters.N, C. 

D octors in every field of medicine . . . grad¬ 
uates of every great medical school in the 
United States ... these were among the 113,597 
doctors recently surveyed by three leading in¬ 
dependent research organizations. 

One of the subjects in this nationwide survey 
was personal cigarette preference. “What cig¬ 
arette do you yourself prefer to smoke, Doc¬ 
tor.?” was the gist of the query. And the brand 
most named by doctors was Camel. 

Try Camels yourself. Compare them for 
mildness .. . for that full, rich flavor that keeps 
on tasting good from pack to pack. 



for taste and T for 
throat —is your own 
proving ground for 
any cigarette. Only 
your taste and throat 
can decide which 
cigarette tastes 
V, best to you ... 
^ how it affects 
your throat. 

Cosf/ier To/mccos 

/i is .^/H.ontA 

The Archive keeps apace with the rest of 
the campus this month by having; its face 
lifteil. Pat Wimberley created the symbolic 
gargoyle tlesign and again proves her artistic 
versatility by the cartoons appearing within 
tlie cover. 

The fiction was contributed by two Duke 
alumnae, both of whom were September 
brides. Doris Harkey Meriwether, who com¬ 
pleted the ret]uirements for graduation over 
the summer, is a Southerner who dwells on 
a truly southern problem in her story, “Spill 
the Milk” on page 10. Beatrix Gross Ramey 
likewise writes about a locale familiar to her. 
Of Roscoff she says, “It is one of the small 
Channel fishing villages in Brittany. Neither 
the place nor the people have changed much 
since the time of Mary Queen of Scots. I 
have stayed in Roscoff twice, and the second 
time in 19 37 I got to know and like the 
place and the people a great deal.” The 
story that was inspired by the sentiment Bea¬ 
trix Ramey holds for Roscoff is “The 
.\ngelus” on page 6. 

Football naturally comes to mind in the 
fall. Johnny Walker, with the helj) of the 
News Service sports expert, Whitie Smith, 
gives The Archive's readers a preview of 
wliat may be expected from the Big Blue 
team this season. “Blue and White Hopes” 
starts on page 8. 

The feature “Archie Speaks” is appearing 
for tlie second time, wherein .\rchie reliearses 
a well-known complaint. 

We’ve given you an idea of what you 
may anticipate in tliis issue. You can now 
look forward to the October issue, which 
will contain a few surprises to interest you. 

THE ARCHIVE, September, 1946 


Editor . ... 

Associate Editor . 

Business Manager . 

Assistant Editor . 

Assistant Business Manager 
(Hoed Business Manager 

Virginia Anne Gunn 
Dave Kick 
. Cliff Blackwell 
Peg Throne Hudson 
Dee Gen I'NER 

^^itorial Staff 

Bob Allen 

Charlotte Mill 

Joe Di Mona 

Ned Martin 

Jo.AN Angevine 

Kitty Morrison 

Pete Wile 

Ruth Harrell 

Pat Wimberley 

Mary Hendricks 

Margaret Meeker 

Be t-sy 

Doug Ausbon 

Cynthia Barrei.l 

Sue Bowmall 

Martha Johnson Scates 

• SSiisiness 

Staff • 

Marg Colvin 

Bill Bryan 

Kay Lauer 



Betty Bayliss 

Shirley Dick 

Eleanor Brinn 

Gloria Koltinsky 

Slim Baird 

Mary Ann Duncan 

.Margaret Frans 

Sara Hitckle 


|lNX Mh.ler 

Bacon IFardee 


Co ncerning 

. X t —A ioiinial is an 

^ V -f ‘i inion whiirlj may be factual or 
ri. -, ,.i:vi;orically speaking. This opinion 
' -III e - ami instituted by the journal’s 
■i.blislu rs, w hereupon it falls under tliat non- 
f.nitiv- term, policy. Fabulous sums have 
'll icably been expended in defense of 
lornalistic policy. Publishers have doubtless 
wa.'tid mean words when in conference to 
lietern ine the policies of their publications. 
Consider then how maddening an attempt 
would Ix’ to extract a single policy from a 
‘•.■ard, formed for that purpose, of some five 
thousand publishers. If the reader will ex- 
a ■■me the statement on the opposite page 
incerning the publication of The Archive, 
he will follow our route of logic. The 
Archive is known as the “oldest collegiate 
literarx" journal in the South.” Since it has 
been named thus, it must be so. .-Vnd we 
stated liefore that a journal must have a 
policy of sorts. Our student-publishers own 
opinions individually but not collectively. If 
there are impossibilities, it is certainly one to 
derive a single opinion from a group of five 
thousand. .As long as the student-publisher 
is opinionating individually, it is inevitable 
that the publication will support an ever- 
changing policy. The editorial feature penned 

by .Archie is our attempt to reveal the policy 
of The Archive. But even .Archie is under¬ 
standably inconsistent; and the best of colum¬ 
nists arc not infallible. Relative to Archie’s 
policy, we can only say that it is another 
case of “to have and have not.” 

Suit for Sale—Archive readers will be 
interested to know that the notoriety (we 
might say in this case) of the magazine has 
spread beyond our national borders. In last 
\'ear’s April issue there appeared a story by 
Jill Fothergill called “.Altitude.” The story 
concerned a political terror-monger from 
F.cuador named Estrada. Quite naturally Jill 
had drawn the story from real life, and she 
neglected to change the name of the cliief vil¬ 
lain. In some way, mystifying to us, the real 
life character Estrada procured a copy of the 
story and was, to say the least, highly in¬ 
dignant. He felt abused to the point where 
he was filing a law suit against The Archive 
for slander or some such misdemeanor. Jill 
and The Archive were saved by the bell on 
the ninth count, the bell being the fact that 
Jill is not yet twenty-one years of age. Our 
sincere apologies, Estrada. 

The Unveiling —The origin escapes me, 
but I recall a passage from some tome of 

assigned reading which was, in effect, this: 
“.And now' as the veil is lifted we see that 
whicli we had knowledge of but could never 
percei\'e before.” This fragment must have 
had some more profound association than the 
one which it now brings to mind, although 
no more fitting one. It seems that a great 
majority of us here, the women in particular, 
have “had knowledge of” but have never 
witnessed before now. This is in reference 
to the unquestionably collegiate trademarks 
that lia\'e been reinstated at Duke in the last 
two weeks. The most conspicuous of these 
indications is the number and variety of auto¬ 
motive vehicles which fill to expanded ca¬ 
pacity the West Campus parking lots. From 
the eastern division of the campus the return 
of “the good ole days” is noted in the re¬ 
visions in the co-ed rule book. Some war¬ 
time social restrictions have been lifted, as 
announced by WSG.A president, Margaret 
Taylor; and most welcome of all to the 
fortunate few is the announcement of double 
cut privileges for Dean’s List students. This 
is to note only a few of the welcome changes 
that are now assuming prominence on the 
campus. No more do we see through a veil 
darkly, but now face to face. 


Student Supplies — Radios & Phonograph Records 
Kodaks & Photographic Supplies — Candies — Drugs 
Tobacco — Fountain Luncheonette 
Cosmetics & Perfumes 

Open Mon.-Sat. 9:00 A.M.—11:00 P.M. 

Meredith Moore—’32 Sun. 12:00 Noon—11:00 P.M. O. G. Sawyer—’23 


THE ARCHIVE, September, 1946 


Vol. L^- September, 1946 No. 1 

In This Issuer 

'I'his Month page 1 

CONCERNINC . . . page 2 

■Archie Speaks . . page 5 

'The Angelus . page 6 

By Beatrix Cobb Gross 

Heue and White Hopes . page 8 

By Johnnie Walker and Whifie Smith 

Spii.i, the Mh.k . page 10 

By Doris Harkey Meriwether 

Hook Reviews . page 16 

By William Styron 

'The Row, Unlimited .page 19 

By Ned Martin and Pete Wile 

Incidentally .page 24 

By Joe Di Mona 

Poetry page 27 

Index to .Advertisers page 28 

A Monthly Magaxine Published by the Students of Duke University 
Durham, North Carolina 

The publication of articles on controversial topics does not necessarily mean that the Editor or the Uni* 
versity endorses them. 

Notice of entry*: "Acceptance for mailing at special rate of postage provided for in Section 1103, Act of 
October 3, 191'^- Authorized December 4, 1924.” Entered as second-class mail matter at the 
Post Office at Durham. N. C. 


Copyright, September, 1946, by Clifford E. Blackwell 

THE ARCHIVE. September, 1946 


'‘Say It With Flowers” 

llie l)ii\ al Hackett Wav is very simple! 

1. Phono L-9().) 

' 1 . Toll us rooipiont's naino and addross. 
ih Toll us kind of fiowors dosirod. 

4. Toll us oard to bo onolosod. 

a. Toll us youi’ naino and box number. 

\V 0 will dolivor your fiowors. obarge tbein, and mail you statement first of 

following montb. 

Dance Decorations a Specialty 


Automatic revolving crystal balls, spot Bulbs in colors, Flood lights, large movable spot lights for 
following dancers on the floor, or spotting singers or special entertainers, color wheels for beauti¬ 
ful and subdued lighting effects. Fringes, Festoonings, Balloons, Flags, Shields and Coconut Palm 


117 N. Mangum St. 
(Opposite Duke Power Co.) 
Phone L-965 

Hours: 8:30 A.M. till 6 P.M. 

Washington Duke Lobby 
Phone F-101—Ext.: Flower Shop 
Hours 1 P.M. till 8 P.M. 

Sat. 1 P.M. till 10 P.M. 

^DuVal Hackett 




THE ARCHIVE, September, 1946 

Archie Speaks 

T HOPE that the following mono¬ 
graph does not affright too many of 
my more skittish readers who expect a 
collegiate editorial to be little more than 
a cheerful blend of coy allusion and 
cliche, one of those familiar screeds — 
assembled in last minute desperation 
from ancient copies of Esquire — which 
endear themselves to all connoisseurs of 
the commonplace. At this point let it 
be known that vour scribe, harried by 
what he quaintly prefers to designate 
as Dukeschmer%^ has a thing or two to 
say, and that if the reader has patience 
he will be either amused or enraged, or 
both, but will not be distressed by any 
moribund anecdotes concerning coeds 
and prurient house mothers. 

d'his heretical document shall doubt¬ 
less do me unto pillory, but I wish to 
set forth, many years too late, one of 
the main causes which make Duke — as 
a perceptive facultv member put it — 
“the best second-rate university in the 
country.” To denominate the Uni¬ 
versity in such an uncomely fashion will 
likely unnerve some of the students who 
are new here this semester; but I shall 
proceed to explain to them in this in¬ 
discreet polemic how, in one respect at 
least, the professor is right, at the same 
time trusting with incredible optimism 
that by the time they graduate a better 
situation will prevail. 

The primary consideration, to use a 
shabby phrase, is that of student self- 
government. Duke is surfeited to its 
academic gills with able and outstand¬ 
ing faculty members, equipped hand- 
THE ARCHIVE, September, 1946 

somely with all the various laboratories, 
instruments, libraries, and other neces¬ 
sary departmental baggage, and verit¬ 
ably drenched in Gothic grandeur; yet 
all of this collegiate glory is but flimsy 
stuff when the auspices of student gov¬ 
ernment extend little further than to 
the appropriating of acorns for the local 

The idea of the university is, at least 
in part, that of a community made up 
of young but allegedly rational-minded 
individuals who are bound by mutual 
interests and goals and who, aided and 
encouraged by their elders, have the 
right to the management of their affairs. 
In this regard, I am not referring to 
certain gargantuan institutions in our 
largest cities, which turn out erudition 
like so much canned asparagus. I speak 
of the true university commune, one of 
the sort such as Duke will or should 
approach sometime arouml the .Mil¬ 
lenium; where, as at a certain school, 
unnamed by me, some twelve miles 
distant, a campus election can be an 
important and highly interesting event; 
where self-government—supervised un- 
officiouslv by the administration—can 
handle capably each phase of student 
affairs; and where such a co-operative 
enterprise makes for a final unity of 
purpose and mutual profit. 

Yet the Duke students at present 
could not legislate an old, w'orn-out 
truss. Were the Administration (and 
here I sense moist eyes looking at me 
askance) to give the student government 
—now as impotent as a three months’ 

foetus—a direct hand in the manage¬ 
ment of such business as the dining hall, 
dope shop, regulation of student con¬ 
duct, drinking for females (leprous 
words! ), and other matters for the mo¬ 
ment outside its scope, I surmise that 
things might soon look up. 

It is no doubt a horrid presumption 
on the part of your correspondent to 
state here a method for effecting a so¬ 
lution, but being in an impudent mood 
today, he suggests the following: that 
the leaders of the student government 
(sic), be they so inclined, arrange a 
parley with the hierarchv of the admin¬ 
istration, with the ultimate view in 
mind of accomplishing some plan 
wherebv the aforementioned student 
activities and affairs, plus any others, 
might be ceded to student control. Let 
us act now, good people, eftsoones we 
shall be mendicants, grubbing for farth¬ 

But now that I have exhausted my¬ 
self in contemplating the political scene 
I shall ensconce myself in that worthy 
and venerable tavern. Red’s, to retire 
to mv favorite corner by the hearth 
where, in the warm and flickering light, 
I shall drink some most noble and heady 
ale, meditating the while on sundry 
dear matters with men of good will: my 
friend Michel of Montaigne, ripe and 
mellow as old Roequefort; gentle Hob 
Burton; and the wnse and kindly doctor, 
Francois Rabelais, who abjures all 
minds sparse and weedy, and mutters 
softlv, e\'er and anon, of freedom. 

'■ I ''HK HRF IX^N priest clinibcil slow- 
the uuiiiing Stair to the 
- ':r\. rile skirts >t his black robe 
a.-! ‘-'^:>klv about his stout tigure as 
:-..::eil the tv>p aiul the wiiul blew 
^ ..^h tl'.- wiiulow slits. His was 
beneath tht shovel hat which he 
M secureh to his head with one hand. 
\-> I', went further the wind blew 
fvirvier through tlu open stone trame 
; th 'elfri and the bell ropes struck 
• o (vca-iinnal soft low iiiUe as tluw were 
own ..gainst the old bmnze hell. 
F.ither Jean locked down on Roscoff. 
'Fhe small stone houses seemed a tes- 
s. d.ited pattern from the church tower 
and the cries of the bread vender in the 
street below came up to him only faint- 
Iv. -At the waterside over near the old 
casth the women of Roscoff were beat- 
'iil: out the town laundrv on the black 
recks. In the harbour a small English 
steamship lav alongside the quay dwarf¬ 
ing the fishing boats tied near her. Be- 
\<>nd the harbour lav the sheltering Isle 
de Batz with its lighthouse. Forneau, 
the keeper, had not been to Mass in a 
long time mused the priest. "Eo the left 
of the island further out smooth waves 
broke with a flash of white over the 
huge rocks jutting up in the water. Out 
in the Channel past them lay scattered 
the fishing fleet. Somewhere further, 
hidden in the haze on the horizon, was 
the English coast. 

The rumbling of a vegetable cart on 
the cobbles below jolted the priest out 
of his reverie and he turned to the bell. 
.As his hands grasped the strong hemp 
he threw his weight on the rope and 
the great bell rang out clearly to the 
people of Roscoff. . . . 

Pierre Lefevre frowned as the church 
bell tolled the Angelus and kept sliding 
his skinny forefinger down the long 
•rolumns of painfully precise figures. 
When he reached the end he noted down 
the total with deliberate strokes of his 
pen. 'Fhen he pulled off his steel- 
rimmed spectacles, breathed on them, 
and polished them with the tail of his 
jhirt. He looked all about the dark little 

shop. Finalh he nodded shortly to his 
voting assistant who was fidgeting about 
the goods on the shelves nearest the 
door. ’Fhe \iuing man grabbed his flat 
black hat (his coat was already on, 
Lefexre noticed), said “Bon soir” po- 
liteh’ to the shopkeeper, and went out 
the shop door with such haste that his 
coat fluttered behind him. Lefevre 
grunted disappro\'ingly as he put the 
leilger away ami opened the wooden 
cash drawer to count the profits of the 

With pleasure he stacked the coins in 
neat piles of ten and counted them. 
There w'ere not as many piles as usual 
todav, but the crackly new fifty franc 
note that he had changed for the tourist 
who bought the pewter measuring cup 
made up for the lack of silver. He was 
sure, since this was the house Mary of 
Scotland had stayed in once, that the 
tourist thought it was a cup she had 
drunk from. Americans were like that. 
He took out a franc and jiggled it 
speculatively. Perhaps he could buy 
something for little Marie who was 
sick. 'Fhen he locked the cash drawer 
and fussed about rearranging the al¬ 
ready neat rows of goods even more 
exactly. Finally he secured the two win¬ 
dows in the store front and, taking a 
cautious look about him to be sure every¬ 
thing was safe, closed the door. The 
wind blew the shiny black clothes even 
closer about his thin body as he locked 
the heavy door carefully and closed the 
thick wooden shutters to protect his win¬ 
dows. Then he started off for the 
patisserie. Some sort of little cake or 
tart, perhaps with pink or white icing, 
might help Marie get well. . . . 

Frangois Metard cast his second line 
far out. It jerked in his hand and he 
pulled sharply back. Then putting the 
other line between his teeth he hauled 
the fish smoothly in hand over hand. 
It zigzagged, the line cutting through 
the water as it neared the boat, and he 
flipped a flashing silver mackerel aboard, 
unhooked it, and tossed it onto the slith¬ 
ering pile in the bow of his sailboat. He 

adjusted the little hone lure and threw 
the line out again. 'Fhen he stood with 
a line in either hand, bracing his great 
bodv against the pitch of the boat in the 
waves. He whistled through his teeth 
for a few moments and stretched mag¬ 
nificently. Then putting both his lines 
in one hand he picked up the last mack¬ 
erel and waved it, shouting to the little 
man in the next boat, “Quatre-vingt.” 
I'he other did not answer and Metard 
repeated, “Eighty in one afternoon! 
And you.?” 

“Enough,” replied the other. 

Metard laughed loudly. Today he, 
Frangois, must have the most mackerel 
of any of the Roscoff fishermen. He 
flung a handful of chopped fish into 
the water for chum to attract the fish. 
A good catch today. Perhaps even 
enough to buy Helene that new lace 
cap she had been teasing him for. She 
said she needed a new one for church. 
He jerked another mackerel into the 
boat. His wife must be as well dressed 
as anyone in Roscoff, that is, anyone of 
course except Madame le Maire. A fine 
couple, the Metards, they would say. 
He so strong and handsome, she so de¬ 
voted. Perhaps even Father Jean would 
think so, though the holy priest did not 
approve of one’s dressing for appear¬ 
ance in the church, but then. ... A 
sharp jerk on one of the lines inter¬ 
rupted his thoughts and he braced him¬ 
self to pull in. This must be a great 
fish, a very leviathan. Metard heaved 
on the line and it came in slowly. Sud¬ 
denly everything gave with a rush and 
he stood swearing at the broken end of 
line that hung dripping from his hand. 
He knelt on the bottom of the boat to 
look for another hook and lure and as 
he did so the strokes of the Angelus bell 
rang clearly over the water. Metard 
crossed himself and then pulled in the 
remaining line. Slipping in his bare 
feet on the slime and fish scales in the 
bow of the boat, he pulled up the anchor 
and hoisted the red canvas sail. He 
steered well away from a great sub- 
(Contmued on Page 15) 


THE ARCHIVE, September, 1946 

As Jacques looked a1 the sea, his old fear swept over him again. Since he teas a 
child he had hated and feared the sea more than anything else. 

THE ARCHIVE, September, 1946 


Wade and Cameron 

By Johnnie Walker and 

Whitie Smith 

sports rising to heights un¬ 
parallel to any other time in the 
history of athletics, it looks as if the 
Devils themselves will have a team that 
will exceed any other team that ever 
represented the Blue and White. Ma¬ 
terial will be flying high and fast at all 
colleges this year due to veteran stars 
returning and to high school athletes 
who have gained fame in the sports 
world w’hile in the service. 

.Material will be thick here on the 
campus this year, but it will be equally 
thick on educational parading grounds 
elsewhere throughout the states. But 
Duke has a great advantage over these 
other aggregations because Wallace 
Wade, the “Old Master,” is back as 
head coach for the first time since 1942 

when Duke played in the transplanted 
Rose Bowl against Oregon State. 

Shortly after the game. Coach Wade, 
who was an artillery captain in World 
War I, volunteered for service and 
spent four years as a Colonel in the 
artillery, most of the time being spent 
where the shells were flying in Europe, 

Coach Wade started his career after 
his discharge from the Army in 1919 
at a little prep school in Tennessee. He 
was then 27 years of age. Now, at 54, 
as he prepares to return to football, he 
can look back on a record which cer¬ 
tainly is among the greatest of all, if 
not THE greatest. 

His life-time coaching record, cover¬ 
ing 23 years of moulding grid machines, 
is 177 victories, 36 defeats and eight 

ties. His 11-year record at Duke be¬ 
fore entering the service was 85 vic¬ 
tories, 19 defeats and three ties—and 
of those 19 defeats, 15 have been by 
margins of one touchdown or less. 

I'en of his teams at Alabama and 
Duke won Southern Conference cham¬ 
pionships and seven of them were rated 
from first to fourth in the nation by the 
various rating systems. His teams have 
appeared in Rose Bowl contests five 
times with two wins, two losses and a 
tie. He, himself, played in the Rose 
Bowl game of 1916 as a guard for 
Brown University, 

One of his greatest accomplishments 
as a coach facing the toughest of op¬ 
position is his record of never having 
been beaten “badly.” His “worst” de- 


THE ARCHIVE, September, 1946 

Kelley Mote 

George Clark 

feats were a 23-0 whipping Syracuse 
gave his first Alabama team in 1923 
and a 25-2 defeat Tennessee handed 
his first Duke team in 1931. 

But Coach Wade is not as much in¬ 
terested in past doings as he is in the 
future. And, as he returns to his old 
post, he faces what is generally recog¬ 
nized as the greatest and hardest of all 
Duke football schedules in history. 

The schedule speaks for itself. On 
consecutive Saturdays, the Blue Devils 
meet N. C. State, Tennessee, Naw, 
Richmond, Army, Georgia Tech, Wake 
Forest, South Carolina and North Caro¬ 

The “Old Master” is his usual cau¬ 
tious self when speaking of prospects. 
He says, “Prospects depend on how the 
returning servicemen come along.” 
number who played here in past years 
are expected back. 

One of these is Bill Milner, who re¬ 
turns to football after having been in 
the Marines since the season of 1943. 

He was named on many All-.America 
selections at guard that season. 

Another is Big Boh Gantt whose last 
season also was 1943 and he, too, re¬ 
ceived recognition on many All-.\mer- 
ica selections. He played end in those 
days hut this spring Coach Wade shifted 
him to quarterback. He weighs 210. 

Still another is George Clark, the 
brilliant star of the Duke-Alabama 
Sugar Bowl game in 1945, who re¬ 
ceived his commission as an PInsign in 
the Navy in mid-season last year but 
was still selected unanimous .All-South¬ 
ern half hack and was also named on 
many of the .All-.America picks. 

Two others are Buddy I.uper and 
Howard Hartley, who were star backs 
on the 1943 team, and since then served 
with the Marines and the Navy, respec¬ 
tively. Incidentally, Clark, Luper and 
Hartley are candidates for the same 
backfield job. Ben Cittadino, an out¬ 
standing end in 1943, is another getting 
back from the Navy. 

Rill Milner 

Veterans from last year who per¬ 
formed well and are returning include 
Kelley Mote and Ed .Austin, a fine pair 
of ends; .A1 DeRogatis, alternate center 
last year who was shifted to tackle in 
spring practice and looks like a real 
find; Jim O’Leary, a big guard who 
was a third string tackle last season but 
was one of the outstanding men of 
spring practice. 

Others returning from the service in¬ 
clude Clyde Redding, a second team 
tackle on Wade’s Rose Bowl team of 
1941-42, Leo Long, sub fullback on 
the same team, who along with Redding 
and Gantt are the only men on the 
squad W’ade has coacheil, I'red Har¬ 
dison, tackle on the Sugar Bowl team 
of 1944, Reece Harry, end on the same 
team, Herman Smith, a reserve end in 
1943, Ernie Knotts, a guard who left 
in mid-season last year for a stretch in 
the Nav\, and Garland Wolfe, a guard 
who did the same thing midw’ay of the 
I'Cominued on Page 22) 

THE ARCHIVE, September, 1946 



01.1. IKK H.XRxNE'F'r kicked the 
screen d<H>r open with a hang. It 
ri.ipped back against the wall, shuddered 
ni>'sil\, and then swung shut, creaking 
on its hinges. He shuffled to the edge 
I't the porch and leaned against the 
gre\ weathered post. It was warm un¬ 
der his shouliler. The afternoon sun 
\sas just going down. 'I'he last ra\s 
filtered through the trellis at the end 
• 'f the porch and made crossed patterns 
with the cracks on the floor. The air 
was still, rite trumpet vine withered 
in the heat. Up the alley a group of 
children laughed and splashed tin cans 
Ilf water on each other, their black arms 
and legs glistening in the sun. 

'I'hev got the right idea, he thought 
as he wiped the row of perspiration 
from his lip. 

Theirs was the only activity. Else¬ 
where on the alley, the hot, heavy air 
of mid-julv had arrested all motion in 
the monotony of rocking chairs and in 
the rhythmic flapping back and forth of 
funeral parlor fans. It was as if every¬ 
thing in the alley waited with unstinted 
patience until the heavy burden of the 
summer air could be lifted by the relief 
forces of night. 

Collier had watched Night come to 
the alley. It crept cautiously up the 
bank of the smelly creek that ran be¬ 
hind the row of shacks. It crouched 
for a moment at the corners of the 
houses, then moved hurriedly along, 
<'eking cover behind clumps of privet 
and battered, overflowing garbage cans. 
.-\t length, .Night sprang forward, shat¬ 
tering the sultry defenses of Day. With 
the coming of Night, life and motion 
would return to the alley. The leaves 
of the stunted water oaks, their green 


Hy Doris Harkev .Meriwether 

lost in the ilust of day, would begin to 
twitch with the slightest breeze. On the 
porches, dark, lean shadows w'ould rise 
in their places, unfold, and stretch to 
man-like size. 'Throaty, masculine 
laughter, entwined with a teasing treble, 
would ring out, begin to fade, and sud¬ 
denly become lost in the grass near the 
creek bank. Night would know her 

Up at the corner. Collier watched 
the white people swarm past from the 
grocer’s, great brown bags piled high in 
their arms. They always seemed to be 
in a hurry—working themselves into a 
sweat even on the hottest days. 

Summer sure wasn’t made for white 
people. Collier mused. They ought to 
know by now you have to give in a little 
to hot weather. All they do is work all 
the time—just working and piling up 
money. Then along comes a hot day 
—and plop! there’s one of them gone. 
Just dropped in his tracks. Collier 
smiled with satisfaction as if he had 
personally sent another one sprawling 
to the earth. His mood of triumph was 
soon shattered by a voice beside him. 

“Hey, Collier — what you doin’.? 
Daydreamin’ ag’in?” He didn’t wait 
for a reply. “Le’s go out to the carni¬ 

Roy was Collier’s best friend. Or at 
least he used to be. Collier was afraid 
he wasn’t anymore. It was hard to tell 
him things sometimes. He didn’t under¬ 
stand. Like the time he only laughed 
when Collier said he thought colored 
people were as good as white people. 
And some of them maybe better. Roy 
had said maybe they were, but it didn’t 
do any good to think about it. 

“Suits me, Roy.” Collier walked 

down the steps. Roy moved on aheadi 
of him along the path, then stopped sud¬ 
denly and faced Collier. 

“Jus’ (tne thing. You got any 
money.?” His eyes twinkled, betraying 
his mock seriousness. 

“It’s Sat’day, ain’t it.?” Collier 
grinned. “Well I got money.” 

Digging his hands deep in his pockets, 
Collier felt the smooth coins oily against 
his fingers. His billfold bulged in his 
hip pocket. With every step he took, he. 
could feel the hard, fat wallet press his 
body. Of course, they were all ones.. 
But it made you feel a lot richer to have: 
all ones, instead of a five and a ten. 
Mr. Grove always smiled a little when 
he asked to be paid in one dollar bills. 
Fifteen dollars wasn’t much for a 
week’s work, but it was good money for 
curbing. Besides, the hours were good. 
He could go out the University morn¬ 
ings. And there was always a good bit 
of extra money in tips. The Drive-In 
was located in the wealthiest section of 

Collier matched his step to Roy’s and 
they walked toward the corner. In front 
of the last house Roy stopped. It was 
the finest house on Grayson Row. It 
was an old house like the others on the 
alley, but the steps were sturdy and the 
shutters secure. 

“Aren’t you going to take Nona.?” 
Roy asked. 

Collier looked toward the house. The 
front door was open and her little broth¬ 
er was playing on the porch. 

“Naw, I don’t guess so. She probably 
isn’t home from work yet anyway,” he 

“You crazy, man? You know she’s 

THE ARCHIVE, September, 1946 

home now. She don’t never work in the 

Collier stared past him with pre¬ 
tended interest in a mottled cat, padding 
ahmg the street. 

“Say, Collier?” Ray began again. 
“What’s between you and Nona these 
days? You been gettin’ those funny 
ideas ag’in?” 

“Naw, Roy. It’s nothin’. Guess I 
just forgot. Wait for me out here.” 

Collier walked slowly up the steps. 
Nona was his girl, wasn’t she? She’d 
been his girl ever since they moved on 
the Row. Why should he be afraid to 
ask her to go? Little Joe put down his 
to}’s and ran to call her. 

Inside the house it was cool and dark 
except for the lamp burning on the 
table. It felt good to be out of the heat. 
Collier thought the room was like Nona 
—cool and dark. She wasn’t actually 
dark. She was a t ellow. But her moods 
were dark and impenetrable. And then 

they were light and he could see right 
in. They understood each other. They 
wanted tlie same things. 

As soon as Nona came in, he knew 
why he had been afraid. She was wear¬ 
ing her uniform—the black one with 
the white starched cap and the frilly 
little apron. Even the simplicity of the 
style could not hide the round fulness 
of her body. 

“Hello, Nona.” H e went on, not 
waiting for her to speak. He wanted to 
avoid any awkwardness. “Roy and I 
arc goin’ out to the carnival. Wanna 
come? ” 

Nona’s eyes met his only for an in¬ 
stant. “I’m working again tonight, 
Collie.” She turned to the mantel and 
moved a vase a little nearer the edge. 
“Mrs. Cameron’s having another party 
tonight. She needs me.” 

d'he Camerons were the richest peo¬ 
ple in town. Nona had been working 
there almost a year. She used to tell 

Collier about the grand parties they had. 
They were like the ones you saw in pic¬ 
ture shows, where the women wore 
long dresses and the men white jackets 
and everybody drank liquor from little 
glasses with long stems. The only dif¬ 
ference was that everybody got drunk 
—not funny drunk, but disgusting 
drunk, d'he things they did made Col¬ 
lier know that they weren’t any better 
than colored people. He had begged 
Nona not to work there. He didn’t 
think it was the kind of place for her. 
But she could never make so much 
money anywhere else. 

Nona faced him again suddenly. She 
was smiling now and tliere was that 
light in her eyes tliat he could never 
quite understand. 

“Oh, Collie, I wish I could go with 
you.” Her hand rested on his arm. 
“Bring me something. Will vou? One 
of those little painted dolls maybe.” 

She moved her hands lightly along 

THE ARCHIVE, September, 1946 


:> . ■in> .iiul r.iiscil her mes to moot liis. 
Hor \ ioi low. 

.'u d. undorstaiul, don’t yon, 
■ a • -And we can havo all dav to- 
a • nv ti'j^othor.” 

“t'. K.. N.>na, suro. Snro, Nona. 
\ -,i 1 nndorstand,” ho addod. 

C- ' r startod down tlio stops. I nn- 
!---,t.ind .ill right, ho thought. Sure, she 
..lii >ond im .Hit to plav like a good 
ttk bo\. I understand. 

N Hia watched him from the door, 
tiion -jailed him hack. She pulled him 
insidi and put hor arms around his nock, 
ura\K ing his bod\ close to hors. “A\"hy 
did \ ou go awav like that.'” Her voice 
uas to.ising. “Who vou lo\e, big bovr” 
she whispered, pushing back to look at 
him. Her dark eyes were intimate. 
Their light was shaded and familiar. 
Everything was all right now. Collier 
know it was. 

The fairgrounds were already 
thronged with people. 7'he midway 
writhed with dancing lights and chaotic 
sounds. Collier had been to carnivals 
manv times, but there was still some¬ 
thing that made them new, exciting. It 
was like watching a parade and feeling 
the drums pound in your stomach when 
the band passes. 

Ho closed his eves and tried hard to 

remember everything to tell Nona. He 
could still see the bright lights of the 
I'orris W’hcel revolve slowly against the 
night skv. And the sound of the IMerrv- 
Go-Round spinning out its sad song in 
a bo\ ish voice made something stick in 
his throat. He was glad when they had 
got down to the end of the midway 
where it was not quite so noisy and 

A barker near them was gathering a 
crowd. Each word seemed to come 
easily, mechanically; but his voice was 
husky from too much use. “S-s-step 
right up, folks! See the most amazing 
show on the midw'ay. I-i-in this tent— 
we will show' you—the fish boy. He has 
no feet. He has no hands. Only fins 
like a fish. Yes, folks, it’s the fish boy.” 

Somew'here in the crowd a man 
jeered. “Pish boy, huh.? Where you 
get a license to catch that kind.?” And 
the crowd laughed with relief. He was 
a sport in a cheap tweed jacket and his 
hair slicked close against his head. 

Roy nudged Collier. “Hey, Collie, 
le’s go in. I’d like to see this.” Inside, 
the crowd lined the canvas square in 
muted silence. A small tow-haired boy 
sat at a table, coloring pictures in a 
book. He held a crayon in two tapering 
pieces of boneless flesh. His legs ended 

in the same meaty prong. The man who 
h:ul mocked the barker outside quickly 
jammed his hands in his pockets and 
w'alked out. 

Collier turned aw'ay from the scene. 
“Ready to go, Roy.?” He felt ashamed 
for having come, and for all the people 
w'ho stared with dumb, expressionless 
faces. Outside the barker was eather- 
ing another crow'd. The man with the 
slick hair stood on the edge of the 
crow'd, not looking at anything. The 
two W’alked on in silence. A sailor and 
his girl passed and she laughed foolishly 
as he brushed a wisp of cotton candy 
from her nose. 

“A’ou know, Roy,” Collier said at 
last, “carnivals are a lot of fun. You 
can do anything you want to. It doesn’t 
make any difference at a carnival.” 

“What you talkin’ about anywa)'?” 
Roy asked. 

“I mean like there’s no back doors 
in these tents and no back seats on the 
P'erris Wheel.” 

“Now listen to me. Collie. Don’t 
you get started on that tonight. We’re 
out to have a good time. Le’s ride the 
Ferris Wheel. Back seats or front seats. 
It don’t make no difference to me.” 

It was getting late when Collier re¬ 
membered the doll for Nona. They 
began to look in all the booths for the 
prettiest one. Roy stopped short in front 
of a booth with a gay red and white 
striped awning. A man was throwing 
balls at a stack of wooden bottles. 

“Collie, why don’t you win her some¬ 
thin’.? She’d like that better ’an any¬ 
thing you could buy.” 

“Yeah, that’s a good idea.” Collier 
looked at the prizes. There were rows 
of pastel blankets hanging across the 
back of the tent. And three shelves of 
big, expensive prizes. There were two 
clocks left. Brown mantel clocks with 
cheap faces. “Maybe I could win her 
a clock. That would be much better 
than a doll—and better than anything 

Mr. Cam-.” Collier stopped and 

looked at Roy. But he was watching 


THE ARCHIVE, September, 1946 

the big white man knock all the bottles 
down and had not heard. “That would 
be better than a doll,” he finished. 

The barker held three balls extended 
in his hand. “Who’ll be next, folks? 
Ev-r-ree body gets a prize. The gentle¬ 
man going there has just won a clock. 
Who’ll be next? A clock if you get ’em 
all down with one! A lovely blanket 
if you get ’em all down with two. 
Everybody wins a prize. Only twenty- 
five cents for three balls. There’s only 
one clock left. Who’ll be next, folks?” 

The crowd stood watching his antics. 
No one moved. Finally Collier stepped 
forward. “I’ll take three, mister.” He 
gripped a ball in his right hand and the 
crowd stepped back to give him room. 
The first ball squashed in a dead thud 
against the canvas. Well, he’d lost the 
clock. And he didn’t want the blanket. 
Might as well take a practice shot, 
though. Two toppled off with the sec¬ 
ond ball. 

Roy watched intently. “Now you’ve 
got it. Collie. Ask him for three more.” 
He didn’t win on the next three. But 
the practice was good. His aim was 
much better. There were three more 
and then three more. “Just three more, 
mister. I’m gonna win this time. I 
want that clock.” 

The crowd had gotten bigger now. 
They were silent, tense, wanting the 
colored boy to win his clock. Collier 
stepped back and took careful aim. The 
muscles were taut under his shirt sleeve 
as he followed through the windup. It 
was a sure winner. The bottles crashed 
to the ground. But two remained teeter¬ 
ing in position. A sigh of disappoint¬ 
ment went up from the crowd. 

The barker stepped close to Collier. 
“Hey, boy—I’ll tell you a secret.” His 
breath was hot and stale in Collier’s 
face and his red rimmed eyes jumped 
nervously. “You gotta aim to hit on the 
right side just between the last two bot¬ 
tles and up a little. See—like this.” All 
the bottles fell. “That’s the way you 
spill the milk.” 

“I’ll take three more.” Collier 
reached for his money, but he had spent 
his last quarter. Roy handed him one. 

The crowd took heart once more and 
pressed closer. Collier surveyed the stack 
of bottles. Spill the milk, huh? He’d 
show him. And he’d knock ’em all 
down without hitting between the last 
two on the right. He could feel the 
crowd behind him, straining as if to 
help. Sure, he’d win. 'Ehis time he 
couldn’t lose. 

The ball sped from his hand and hit 
the bottles dead in the center. Collier’s 
arm dropped to his side and his chest 
heaved with satisfaction. 'I'he barker 
was quick. He thrust a painted walking 
stick with a silk tassel at Collier. His 
voice boomed. “A-a-and the boy wins 
a prize. Everybody wins a prize. Who’ll 
be next, folks? It’s ver-ry easy. Just 
spill the milk. Only a quarter—twenty- 
five cents for three balls.” 

He glanced at Collier still standing 
before him. “Go on, hoy,” he scowled 
under his breath. “You got your prize. 
Clear out.” 

“I want the clock,” he said. “I won 
it.” He turned to look at the crowd 
watching silentlv. Most ot them had 

already begun to move away. They had 
wanted him to win, but they didn’t care 
about the prize. A change had come 
over the ones who were left. They 
were smiling, but it was not regret or 
svmpathy. On the face of the entire 
crowd there was a fixed, triumphant 
smile, a snarl. 

.A man in front spoke up. “You 
heard him, bud. Be on your way. You 
can take your pretty little walking cane. 
A few years from now you’ll be glad 
you got it”—he turned to the crowd— 
“if you live that long,” he sneered. 
'Ehey laughed coarsely and he exulted 
in their approval of his joke. 

Roy watched Collier’s jaw tighten 
and saw the vein begin to swell at his 
temple. “Come on. Collie. Le’s get the 
walking stick and go home.” He picked 
it up from the ground where the man 
had thrown it. He pushed Collier ahead 
of him and the crowd separated for 
them to pass. 

The boys walked home without 
speaking. Collier left Roy at his house 
and walked on toward the Row alone. 
It was late and no one was on the street. 
From the corner he could see a dim 
(Cont'niued on Page 21) 

THE ARCHIVE, September, 1946 


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THE ARCHIVE, September, 1946 

The Angeliis 

(Continued from Page 6) 
merged rock about which the tide was 
I swirling and eddying and sailed for the 
Roscoff harbour, jeering at other fisher¬ 
men less quick in starting. . . . 

Old Hyacynthine Lamond rubbed his 
leathery neck with one hand and spat 
into the harhour. He was sitting on the 
end of the quay watching the boats in 
the harbour. Just below him, on the 
steps leading down from the quay, 
young Michel was gingerly tossing sea 
urchins from his father’s skiff and on 
the shore someone was painting a sail¬ 
boat that was propped on crossed stilts, 
a bright yellow, probably for the regatta 
races next week. 

A small boat with a brown sail 
rounded the channel marker and came 
about snappily. Lamond raised his hand 
solemnly in reply to the wave from the 
young man in a red cap and faded 
jersey who sat in the stern. Lamond 
opened his tobacco bag and shook a few 
grains into a paper to roll a cigarette. 
As he licked the edges together he 
watched the t'oung man make the little 
boat fast just under the stern of the 
English ship towering above, ffe looked 
at the numerals painted on bow at dif¬ 
ferent levels. She was riding high. 'I'he 
cargo of onions must be only half 
loaded. He wondered what the pro¬ 
pellers looked like on this ship. He must 
remember to look early tomorrow morn¬ 
ing when the tide was low and the 
children were running about the har¬ 
bour bottom without wetting their 
ankles. It always seemed odd to him 
that at low tide they could walk where 
at high tide a shiji could come in with 
water to spare. 

d'his ship was about the size of that 
one Hyacynthine’s father had saved the 
i twenty men from y'cars ago. .An Eng¬ 
lish ship that too. Ces Anglais! He spat 
toward the ship of the English. Not 
the sense to get a pilot which the in- 
I surance companies demanded and al- 
' ways being wrecked in the channel be¬ 
tween the Isle de Batz and Roscoff har¬ 

bour. His father had swum to that 
other ship with a line in a big storm 
one' night. Legion of Honor, Victoria 
Cross. A good harbour pilot. But the 
Lamonds had always been good pilots. 
Hyacyntbine, his father and grand¬ 
father, and now his son, all pilots for 
Roscoff. He glanced at the young man 
in the red knit cap and spat approvingly. 
A'es, Charles was a son to be proud of. 
'Ehe bell in the tower struck the Ange- 
lus. He looked up at the tower and 
watched the bell swinging. After a 
few minutes of thought he spat again, 
waved to his son, and walked along the 
quay toward his house. He must finish 
supper early so that there would be 
time to play at bowls with the Roscoff 
team on the courts back of the Hotel 
D’Angleterre. . . . 

Jacques Forneau, lighthouse keeper 
for the Isle de Batz, yawned and sat 
up sleepily on his feather bed as he 
heard the strokes of the Angelus bell 
echoing across the water from the 
mainland. He rubbed his eyes with the 
heels of his hands and shook his head 
to clear it. He splashed cold water on 
his face and combed bis tousled ban 
and stubby beard before a small dis- 
tortinsi mirror oyer the washstand. 
"Ehen he put on his warm trousers, a 
jacket, and a black beret, stepped into 
his straw-filled wooden sabots, and 
walketl outside, flis wufe had bten 
weeding the artichokes and was tossing 
a few that were ripe into a wooden 
wheelbarrow. Now she stopped and 
stood with arms akimbo looking across 
the narrow stretch of w'atei to tlie Kos- 
coff church tower. “'Ehe .Angelus, 
Jacques. I must fix your supper,” she 
said, as she gathereil up her long black 
skirts and started for the door of the 
old brick lighthouse. 

Forneau nodded and lit his pipe. 
"I’m going tor a walk, Madeleini'. 
He kissed her on the cheek ami strode 
tow'ard the rocky point. He passed a 
crucifix set on a pyre of rocks. .A little 
further on he stopped and looked to- 
(Continued on Page 1S) 

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THE ARCHIVE, September. 1946 


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Although this unpretentious and 
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and the controversy between mechanist 
and vitalist. 

“You are ignorant of life,” he says, 
“if you do not live it or some portion 
of it, just as it is, a shaft of light from 
a nearby star, a flash of blue salt water 
that curls around the five upthrust rocks 
of the continents, a net of green leaves 
spread to catch the light and use it, and 
you, a handful of supple earth and long 
white stones, with sea water running in 
your veins.” 

To those only acquainted with Mr. 
Peattie through his somewhat sanguine 
articles on the American scene in the 
READER’S DIGESd^ this book will 
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poet-naturalist in the tradition of Tho- 
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The book is a collection of short es¬ 
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which the author describes the seasons, 
their changes and manifestations, 
through the eyes of a biologist, yet with 
a poet’s sensitivity and perception. Mr. 
Peattie’s concern, however, is not only 
with the physical aspects of Nature, but 
also with the biological inquiry into the 
mystery of life itself—a subject in 
which he deals with neither dogmatism 
or bluntness, but with a humanist’s 
sympathetic regard for beauty which 
lurks in the most prosaic of things. 
Though his interest generally centers 
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written digressions have to do with 
such widely diverse topics as the lives 
of great naturalists, evolutionary theory. 

Such is the author’s remarkable trust' , 
in life, a trust which involves every 
facet of the world about him, and 
which he expresses tenderly, lyrically, .! 
and with a conviction born out of wide i 
knowledge and understanding. In these : 
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keynote most of our writing, it is in¬ 
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with assurance uttered in such words as 
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his faith on Nature when in Nature 
there is no certain end awaiting the am¬ 
bition of his race? When all is flux 
and fleet, the great flood tides of spring 
that are like to drown him, and the 
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comfort from the brave new greening 
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or in the first eerie whistle of the 
meadow larks, saying that life is ‘sweet- 
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sweet to all men. It brings some blind 
into this world and of others requires 
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man turns his face is a brief candle in 
the universe. His women and his chil¬ 
dren are as mortal as the flowers. 

“But it is not life’s generosity, so 
capricious, that makes one man happy. 


THE ARCHIVE, September, 1946 

It Is rather tlie extent ot liis gratitude 
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“I say that it touches a man that his 
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I \outh rise, and, having fallen, rise 
' again. Now he has lived to see another 
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most hiddenly, and a hand in the mak¬ 
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I not built with hands, he lives at peace 
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THE ARCHIVE, September, 1946 


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ward'the pm'iit. The long swells from 
the Channel were smashing against the 
great rocks of the island tip, throwing 
up liigh fountains of spray. Some of 
the spray was carried h\ the wind to 
the place wliere he stood and he turnetl 
his pipe upside down to shelter it from 
the wet. Across the water the sea was 
darkening in the distance and the large 
waves seemed black and ominous. He 
shivered a little and continued to stare, 
fascinated at the giant waves breaking 
on the stubborn rocks, sliding back with 
a rattling of pebbles, and then breaking 
again. . . . 'Fhe sea tearing at the rocks 
and the rocks thrusting back the sea over 
and over. It seemed perpetual and yet 
he knew that in the end the sea would 
wear away the rocks and the island and 
the lighthouse. As Jacques looked at the 
sea his old fear swept over him again. 
Since he was a child he had hated and 
feared the sea more than anything else. 

It was because of this that he had not 
become a fislierman with the other men 
of Roscoff, but had brought Madeleine 
with him away from the friendliness 
of the town to the lonely Isle de Batz 
lighthouse, where he warned the ships 
at sea off the treacherous rocks of the 
Breton coast. He could see the fishiup; 


boats now, scudding for the mainland. 
Metard, Gerard, and the rest,all going 
home with a good day’s catch. The sun 
was low now, and, shaking off his 
gloom, he turned away from the sea 
and started back toward the lighthouse. 
At the crucifix he knelt and prayed for 
a time. As he got up and walked on, 
his sabots clattered noisil}' and he hum¬ 
med cheerfullv to himself as he went 
to light the old light and keep his lonely 
watch in the cold dark, listening to the 
noise of the waves on the rocks. 

Father Jean let the bell rope go. For 
a time the belfry was filled with the 
resonant sound from the bell gradually 
dying away. Then it was quiet and the 
(Continued on Page 22) 





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$2.00 on Sat., Sun., & Holidays 

Including: 20% Fed. Tax 

50c After 5:00 P.M. 

Sept, thru May 31, 1947 


Any Day 


THE ARCHIVE, September, 1946 

T^he ^iv, Unlimited 

Neo Martin 
Pete Wile 

Toda}' was D-Day on our green, 
path-worn campus. The advancing 
hordes were prepared to invade the sa¬ 
cred portals just adjacent to the 

"V’es, it was induction day at Publi¬ 
cations Row, a day which hundreds of 
eager students—many of them veter¬ 
ans in the latest of a series of wars (To 
Be Continued )—had been anticipating. 
Many are the foot-sore servicemen who 
spent their grimy fox-hole careers 
dreaming of the dav when they could 
return to a democratic Duke and pro¬ 
cure a job on a democratic Archive. In 
fact, that’s why we won the war. Even 
brass and braid like Doug and Chet— 
we know them intimatelv—had dewey- 
eyed aspirations on Archive editorships 
when the lights went on again, but were 
disappointed at the last minute when 
this poverty-stricken but proud Uni¬ 
versity turned down their applications 
for admission due to bourgeois defer¬ 
ence to the Duke ex-G.I.’s. Always for 
the little man. 

Anyway, we walked down to the 
Archive office today with the tradition¬ 
al spring in our step and the traditional 
confidence in our hearts. We were go¬ 
ing to apply our multitudinous literary 
talent to the Archive and help it along 
on its traditional road to success. 

So we were totally unprepared for 
the scene that met our four eyes. 
Wedging our way through a maze of 
Chronicle copy-boys, we stumbled into 
the smoke-filled Archive office. .Ap¬ 
proximately twenty happy students, 
mostly of the male and female gender, 
were sitting, lying and hanging in va¬ 
rious attitudes of repose around the 
spacious room. 

.\ casual glance to our right reward¬ 
ed us with an eye-filling view of Dee 

Gentner’s legs, the likes of which we 
had never seen in our combined thirteen 
semesters at Duke. She was swinirinsr 
said legs provocatively, meanwhile en¬ 
gaging a pop-eyed male audience in 
sprightly conversation. We nudged each 
other, mopped our brows, and decided 
then and there that this was the outfit 
for us. 

Sprawling luxuriously on the couch 
was Joe Di ,\1ona, the quiet and unob¬ 
trusive Chronicle wheel of years back. 
He was completelv enveloped by wom¬ 
en, but that did not daunt our Joe. He 
expounded on subjects usual and un¬ 
usual, quite remote from Archive busi¬ 
ness, the while dallying with a full¬ 
blown co-ed on his left. Tears of joy¬ 
ous nostalgia filled our eyes. 'I'hings 
hadn’t changed while we were awat’. 

Also on the overloaded couch set a 
very attractive girl who nevertheless 
had qviite a businesslike attitude. She 
whipped out two file cards, eyed us 
critically—and, it seemed, with some 
trepidation—and jiroceeded to fire ques¬ 
tions in our general direction. 

( During this time three freshmen, 
all former high school editors, burst 
into the room demaniling Archive jobs, 
Di Mona got slapped, a girl laughed, 
and hick broke into song.) 

Dee continued to swing her legs dan¬ 

We attempted to answer the per¬ 
sonal questions of our fair cross-exami¬ 
ner who, incidentallv, was the Nth de¬ 
gree in distraction. We learned that 
her name was Virginia Gunn, the edi¬ 
tor of The .4rchive, and immediately 
made another entrv in our already- 
crowded date book. Ginny, as we now 
familiarh call her, wrote down our 
names, addresses and other pertinent in- 

(Continued on Po^e .ii ) 

When You Have 
Watch Trouble 


Ferrell’s Watch 

7 Watch Doctors 
108 W. Parrish St. 
Opposite Silver’s 





Insurers for 



Elilily’s Beauty 
Salon, liie. 

Air Conditioned 

W here Individuality 
is the 

Telephone R-791 
107 West Parish St. 

THE ARCHIVE, September, 1946 


Verdant frosh and sophisticated seniors alike are “hep” to Helen Harper’s 
—those wonderful, wearable sweaters you’ll live in and love all season 
long. Our new campus-wise collection includes a host of classroom classics 
and many exciting new date-baiting beauties. And they all bear the Helen 
Harper label—which means they walk away with sweater honors. 

New Fall Collection by America’s Pet Sweater Designer 


THE ARCHIVE, September, 1946 

Spill The Milk 

{Conliiiued from Page 13) 
light burning in the back room of 
Nona’s house. That was Nona’s room. 
He was glad she was still up. He would 
tell her about the carnival and site 
would understand about the doll. 

He walked toward the house. H'hen 
he saw IVIr. Cameron’s car parked in 
the back. He was not surprised. He 
had seen it there twice before. One 
night he had waited in the bushes to 
watch Mr. Cameron leave. He had got 
a good look at him then. A rather short 
middle-aged man, clumsily hurrying to 
get in the car before anyone could see 
him. It had made Collier remember 
the time he and Roy had been caught 
swimming naked in Mr. Johnston’s 

He watched the lighted window 
blindly, clinching his jaw at the thought 
of her cool body under a white man’s 
hands. He didn’t know Nona after all, 
he guessed. How could she want any¬ 
one else? The high school girls came 
out to the Drive-In on Sundays. He 
used to look at their long, soft hair and 
wonder how it would feel to run his 
hands through it. .4nd he always noticed 
the fine shape of their legs under their 
silk dresses. But he had never wanted 
one of them. Not the wav he wanted 

Nona’s rich laughter floated from 
the window and mocked him standing 
there. His hands gripped the walking 
stick he was still holding. The tassel 
brushed his wrist in a soft, silken caress. 
His head was spinning and he wanted 
to be sick. 

He turned from the house. If that 
was Nona’s decision, he had one, too. 
She hadn’t fooled him this afternoon 
with her loving ways. Crouching be¬ 
hind the car, he waited. His hands 
clinched the walking stick until his 
knuckles ached. But it felt strong, very 
strong. The man at the carnival had 
been wrong. He was alreadv glad he 
had won the walking stick. 

THE ARCHIVE, September, 1946 


Perfect Portraits In Air Conditioned ('.oinfort 

jack williams, photographer 

Personal Photographer To Duke Students 
110 1/2 Corcoran Street F-0181 


For Many Years . . . 

We have had the pleasure and privilege of serving 
the University and its student body ... an asso¬ 
ciation we cherish more and more with each passing 




Blue and W liite Hopes 


’ — 4- 


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The Aiigeliis 

= ContiuucJ from Ptige IS) 
priest looked out from the tower. I’eo- 
ple were hurrving home for the evening 
now. The fishing fleet had spread its 
multi-colored sails and was sailing fast 
for the quav. Soon now the Isle de Katz 
light would be lit and night would fall. 
The priest stared down at the street and 
at all the people rushing about as though 
someone had suddenh pulled the strings 
to make them hurry so and to release 
them from the work of the day. Father 
lean felt powerful then for all this de¬ 

pendence placed on the Angelus. Not 
powerful in himself, hut in his church, 
to which the peojilc of Roscoff turned. 
He crossed himself anil went soherh' 
down the winding stone stairs from the 
hell tower. 

W e Prepare 

For Cabin Parties 


Kosher Delicatessen 

121 E. Parrish Street 
Phone N-4371 

Try Our 

Delicious Specials 






Opposite Washington Duke 

Phone R-161 

• Watches 

• Diamonds 

• Jewelry 


“Gifts That Last” 

211 W. Main St. 
Durham, N. C. 

You’ll find a 

WarnLj> Welcome^ 



105 West Parrish St. Phone L-919 

Headquarters for 

Personalized Stationery, Match Books, Cocktail 

Napkins, Coasters 

24-Hour Service 


THE ARCHIVE, September, 1946 

The Kow, Unlimited 

(Continued from Page 19) 
formation, and bade us a cheery good¬ 
bye. We turned away reluctantly, 
knowing that this year’s Archive is in 
capable hands. 

The room by then was in pande¬ 
monium. Eyeryone was recounting his 
summer experiences, war experiences, 
in fact, any old experiences they had 
hanging around loose, d'hey all had 
them, believe us. 

We were just about to make our exit 
when we spotted Bill Styron cramped 
uncomfortably behind a raft of 1940 
Archives. He recognized us, eyes light- 
.ening, and crawled forward to give us 
•the glad hand. An ex-Marine, he had 
made his way back to Duke after try¬ 
ing two other colleges. Bill wasn’t born 
.yesterday. We exchanged exaggerations 
awhile, then decided we should take our 
(leave. Enough was enough. So, taking 
one last covetous look at Dee’s flailing 
limbs, we departed. 

Out in the open air once more, we 
inhaled. It was nice. 

Yes, it had been quite a day—a day 
jof fulfilled ambitions, vague doubts 
land crushing defeats. The Archive had 
I selected the chosen few to represent it 
I in its battle for literary supremacy, and 
: we were among the chosen few. 

We laughed. 


It was one of mother’s most hectic 
days. Her small son, who had been 
playing outside, came in with his pants 

“'Foil go right in, remove your 
pants, and mend them yourself.” 

Some time later she went to see how 
he was getting along. The torn pants 
were lying on the chair. "Ehe door to 
the cellar, usuallv closed, was open and 
she called down loudly and sternly; 
“Are you running around down there 
without your pants on?” 

“No, Madam, T am reading the gas 
meter.” — Old Maid. 

THE ARCHIVE, September, 1946 

Hats Off... 


In past years we have been proud to serve the Duke 
Students. In doing so we feel we have had a small part 
in aiding you to realize your high hopes for the future. 

It is our desire to continue to serve you now and in 
the years to come. 


Having Difficulties? 


Durham Uaiiiulrv 

Gregson & Peabody Streets 
Phone L-991 


For Your (',011 veilieiicc 

The New 

Duke-Rhodes Photographic Studio 

A Studio of High Art and Dependability 


1004V2 W. Main 

Over Ivy Room 

Phone N-9172 



of all 

lee (xeani 


1011 W. Main 

‘‘The Little store with the 
large selection of 

Zenith Radios—our own re¬ 
pair department. 

Buffet clarinets—York Band 

Supplies & Music—Our new 
department (Electric 


At Five Points 

‘Come in and Browse Around’ 

Peoples Savings 

Visit us for your school 


For The “College Man” 


H. L. Goldberg, ’28 


211 N. Mangum St. N-3921 


Bv Dt I\l0N.\ 

Miicli as we approve and appreciate 
our coed toilers i>n Pidrlications Row, 
it was .a relief to us on our return to 
fiiul that men once more outnumbered 
their female competitors on the Row. 
The headv atmosphere of powder and 
perfume is now blessedlv diluted by 
cigar smoke and profanity, and the 
constant murmur of coed chatter is 
once again being punctuated hy an oc¬ 
casional otf-color joke, followed by a 
chorus of male guffaws. 

^ ^ 

But the coeds that are still around 
haven’t changed to any degree. The 
other day we spied a Chanticleer girl 
telephoning. We sidled over to her and, 
absent-mindedly, draped our arm around 
her affectionately. But she wasn’t buy¬ 
ing any of it. Brushing us off', and toss¬ 
ing her head, she said: 

“Humph. Try the Archive office.” 

* * * 4= * 

Withdrawing the knife from our 
back, we hastened over to the Archive 
office to tell boss Ginny Gunn of this 
latest slight on the morals of her coed 
staff. But we stopped midway. Who 
were we to start an inter-office feud 
that might end—who knows?—in bit- 
terlv-flung slander? We can hear the 
girls now, going to it: 

“You, you Archivist, I saw you hold¬ 
ing hands with Charley Markham.” 

“I did not. I was only counting his 
pulse for a feature on politics. But you, 
you Chanticleer witch, how about that 
hour you spent in the dark rocun de¬ 
veloping pictures? Hah! Explain that.” 

^ -jf 'Jf- 

So we let the Archive ride, and in¬ 
stead wandered on down to the Duke 
Duchess office where we found Chan 
Hadlock and his lieutenants slapping 
each other on the back over this latest 
incident: The editors thought it would 




be a good idea to print a letter of we! ( 

come to the D ’T D for their first is | 

—the letter to be signed by the Dean: ^ 
But one Dean objected. Why welcom 
it, asked he, it’s not a new publicatior 
after all? We’ve had the D ’w’ D o 
campus before. 

But, the D V/,’ D staffer interposed ■ 
it is a new publication; a different ap’ 
pea ranee, make-up that’s s 1 i g h 11 ' 

“Radical! ” exploded the Dean, , 
don’t ever want to hear that word men i 
tinned in my office again.” i 

Which, coming from a Dean, was ; 
radical statement—ooops, there goet j 
that nasty word again. : 

^ ^ i 

Like Spring, politics is bustin’ out ah 

Former friends are finding them¬ 
selves aligned on different sides of the 
political fence, and former enemies are 
having to shake hands, kiss each other 
on the cheek, and vote the straight 
ticket. ’ 

But it will all blow over, as it al¬ 
ways has, and the feelings that have 
been hurt will heal, the erstwhile 
friends will speak to one another again, 
and the enemies will be hard at work 
again cutting each other’s throat over 
la Smoot, Garrett, Stivers, et al. 

By the time this issue appears, the' 
elections may have already taken place. 
If so, we wish alEsuccess to the newly-' 
elected officers. 

If not, take our advice and don’t get 
frantic about the elections. We have' 
always urged that everyone take an ac¬ 
tive interest and voice in the elections. 
But don’t get overheated. 

After all, does it matter who has 
charge of the “Keep Off the Grass” i, 
signs for the next year? 


THE ARCHIVE, September, 1946 I 

MISS . . . 

Use Our Convenient 
Lay-Away Plan 

We Solicit Charge 


Brunswick Stew 
Fried Chicken 




After Diiiiiij; At 

Rigsbee & Corporation Ave. Phone F-6001 

THE ARCHIVE, September, 1946 


Durham’s Smartest Women’s Shop 
Greets and Welcomes 
Duke Students 

For Smart College Styles For Campus, Teas, or Dances. Visit the Friendly 

Store in the Friendly City 






THE ARCHIVE, September, 1946 

By Rosalie Halbren 

Hear the surging- from its floor. 

See it merging more and more. 

Feel the stolid rock repel 
The swirling smoldering hate 
Of force. 

Like a mighty citadel— 

Stands the strong and ancient cliff 
Above the turbulent chaos. 

And I, a lonely sentinel 
Keep watch on desolate shore. 
With all the wrath it can create, 

I The sea brings forth its fangs of hate. 
( The glistening sand a powerless bait. 

With rhythmic, melancholy beat; 

With white and flaming crests or heat, 

I Conceived within its very seat— 

The -sea bares its soul to the world. 
And I keep watch. 

What right has man to view this scene. 
This epic and fantastic dream 
Of hate and force? 

Oh! It was never meant to be 
That I should ever chance to see 
This depth of sea! 

For man is ruled by conscious brain. 
His soul is held by heavy chain 
.•\nd only is released through Pain. 

.Vnd I keep watch on desolate shore. 

I hear the pounding on the sand; 
Slowly, slowly coming close. And 
Now at last I feel the spray 
Of water cool against my face 
.'Vnd hands. 

Down upon the rock I lay 
.Vs on it comes at mv commands. 

.‘Vnd I, a lonely sentinel. 

Keeping watch on desolate shores, 
.At last am free! 


.A new-born infant’s helpless cry. 
Uneventful years go by; 

-Vn old man’s disillusionment, 
.Vnother fruitless life is spent. 

J. Winkle Wilson, Jr. 

Duke University Stores 

Owned and operated for your convenience 
by Duke University 

Duke University Store 
Duke Hospital Store 
Woman’s College Store 
The Haberdashery 


For More Thau a Decade 






^fie CitizensNational 



Z7Jie friendly ^aiik Since 1905” f 
Member Federal Deposit Insurance Corporation 

For Your Health 
For Your Pleasure 
For Your Fiiii 

Bowl At 


Opposite Post Office 
Phone R-6271 for Reservations 

THE ARCHIVE, September, 1946 


If Yon Want To .. . 

. . . follow the campus activities in print or in pictures— 
The Archii'e is your best bet. 

Send Srtfjibe Home 

Rate SI.75 for this year. Send all orders and correspondence to: 


The Archive, Box 4665 
Duke Station, Durham, N. C. 

The University Dining Halls 

Be the Pritle of the Campus 

Have Your Clothes Cleaned 


‘Duke University Jjvundry 

The Best in Laundry and 
Dry Cleaning Service 


7:30-5:30 WEEKDAYS 7:30-3:00 SATURDAYS 

Index to Advertisers 


.•Vpter’s. 22 

Aubrey’s . 2 3 

Camels. Inside front cover 

Center B. Alley. 27 

Chesterfield .Back cover 

Christian’s . 17 

Citizens Nat’l. Bank. 27 

Duke Power . 2 3 

Duke Rhodes Studio. 23 

Durham Dairy . 18 

Durham Engraving Co. 22 

Durham Ice Cream Co. 16 

Durham Laundry . 23 

Durham Office Supply. 22 

D. LL Laundry . 28 

D. LT. Stores . 27 

D. U. Union . 28 

DuVal Hackett . 4 

Efird’s . 14 

Ellis Stone . 20 

Emily’s . 19 

Fidelity Bank . 21 

Goldman’s . 24 

G. W. Ferrell. 19 

Hillandale Golf Course. 18 

Home Insurance . 19 

Ivy Room . 16 

Little Acorn . 25 

Montgomery’s . 22 

Peoples Savings Store . 24 

Ray’s . 22 

Robbin’s . 26 

Sawyer & Moore . 2 

Sher’s . 24 

The Fashion . 25 

Town & Country Furs. Inside back cover 

WDNC . 15 

Williams Studio . 21 

The Purchasing Power of 
Duke University Students 
Is $1,500,000. 

It Pays To Advertise. 

♦ '♦ - ♦> 

♦..'i.'i,.'. At-'? -♦A-T'?.'-.- 


THE ARCHIVE, September, 1946 

coat of tk year in lllitlllimit 

. fl 


l<]iliii(|4iii tilled liiiiib . ^ 


540 West 53lli ijfreei, New ^ orli 

TI»AO£ M-\PK «€C. U.S. PAf« f . 


B ' BEHER 3 


jA// fho Bsnefifs 


Yankee Stadium 
& Polo Grounds 

0/fSTf/tf/flD /S Br MR TH£ 
IARC£STS£U/NG aG/iR£rr£ 



Copyright 1946, Ugcett & Myejls Tobacco Co. 

His years of study are 
never finished .. .for 
the practice of 
medicine is one of 
constant change... and 
every change is for 
the better. . .for you! 

S EVKN long years he studied 
ht-jorc rliose resjiected ini¬ 
tials “M.D." were affixed to 
his name. .\nd that was onlj'^ 
the beginning! 

For every day brings dis¬ 
covery in the Held of medicine. 
.\ew methods of treatment, 
of protecting and prolonging 
hte. .Ml these the doctor must 
kn<rw to fulfill his obligation 
to vou ... to mankind. That’s 
being a doctor! 

More Doctors smoke Camel;i 



• “What cigarette cio you smoke. Doctor.?” 

1 hat was the gist of the question put to 113,597 
doctors from coast to coast in a recent survey by 
three independent research groups. 

More doctors named Camels than any other 

If you're a Camel smoker, this definite prefer¬ 
ence for Camels among physicians will not sur¬ 
prise you. If not, then hy all means try Camels. 
'1 r\- them for taste . . . for your throat. That’s the 
“ 1 -Zone” test (see right). 


Cosf/ier Tobaccos 

R. J. Reynolds 

lobacco Co 

Your "T-Zone" Will Tell You 

The“T-Zone”—T for 
taste andTfor throat 
—is your own prov¬ 
ing ground for any 
cigarette. For only 
your taste and your 
throat can decide 
which cigarette tastes 
best to you,... and 
Itow it affects 
your throat. 

“Say It With Flowers’" 

The DuVal Hackett Way is very simple! 

1. Phone L-965 

2. Tell us reeii)ient’s name and address. 

3. Tell us kind of flowers desired. 

4. Tell us card to he enclosed. 

5. Tell us your name and hox numher. 

We will deliver your flowers, charge them, and mail you statement first of 

following month. 

, Bailee Decorations a Specialty 


Automatic revolving crystal balls, spot bulbs in colors, flood lights, large movable spot lights for 
following dancers on the floor, or spotting singers or special entertainers, color wheels for beauti¬ 
ful and subdued lighting effects, fringes, festoonings, balloons, flags, shields and coconut palm 



117 N. Mangum St. 
(Opposite Duke Power Co.) 
Phone L-965 

Hours: 8:30 A.M. till 6 P.M. 

Washington Duke Lobby 
Phone F-101—Ext.: Flower Shop 
Hours 1 P.M. till 8 P..M. 

Sat. 1 P.M. till 10 P.M. 

THE ARCHIVE, October, 1946 



THE ARCHIVE, October, 1946 


• fcV 

his .^Atonth 

We hope you like the landscape on the 
cover because we plan to feature one every 
month. Frank Trechsel does ’em—-and a 
nice job, too. “Trechs” also did the full- 
page illustration on page 8, and we think 
you’ll like it as much as we do. 

On page 16 you’ll find another new fea¬ 
ture, “Sketches,” which we plan to run each 
month. This month Dr. and Mrs. White are 
our subjects. The caricature of Dr. White 
was done by Clarence Brown. 

Bill Styron, who needs no introduction to 
past readers of the Archive, has a fine story, 
“The Ducks,” on page 9. Read it and see 

■ what we mean when we say that it’s one of 
i his best yet. Bill also wrote “Sketches.” As 
' for the story on page 12, we might say 

■ that “Snitger’s back, and the Archive's got 
him.” Bill used to write for the Archive 

' before he went into the service, and this is 
his first story since he got out. His “Pattern 
of the Moth” is a real chiller-diller, guar- 
i anteed to—well, read it yourself. The il¬ 
lustration is by Pat Wimberley. 


\ You’ll also find an article on the much- 
discussed Honor System on page 1+. 

In the Poetry Department we have an ex¬ 
cellent piece by a constant performer Rosalie 
Halbren, plus a few more by a newcomer, 
I Bob Loomis. 

Archie notices and comments on some of 
the changes at Dearalduk—all in fun(?), of 

^^itorial Staff 

Virginia Anne Gunn, Editor 
David W. Pick, Associate Editor 
Peggy Throne, Assistant Editor 
Frank Trechsel, Art Editor 


Bill Styron 

Bob .‘Vllen 

Joe Di Mona 

Betsy John Hurley 

Joan Angevine 

Kitty Morrison 

Cynthia Barrell 

Marion Fox 

Charlotte Mill 

Gordon Nazor 

Bob Loomis 

Leslie Moseley 

Ned Martin 

Nancy Kester 

Pete Wile 

Bill Snitger 

Pat Wimberley 

Doug Ausbon 

Sally Bowmai.l 

Charm IAN Scates 

Clarence Brown 

Jack Matlock 

EBusiness Staff 

Clifford E. Blackwell, Business Manager 
Fran Hudson, Assistant Business Manager 
Dee Gentner, Coed Business Manager 
Bill Bryan, Circulation Manager 


Betty Bayliss 
Gloria Koltinsky 
Sara Huckle 
Shirley Dick 
Margaret Frans 
Carl Burgert 
Sis W.atson 
Genevieve Parks 

Eleanor Brinn 
.Mary .\nn Duncan 
Lou Bei.lo 
Slim Baird 
Jane Matthaus 
Nancy Rousseau 
Jane Scarborough 
Sandy Jones 

Somewhere in the course of man’s evolu¬ 
tion, he assumed a famous talent for griping. 
This talent, which is overly employed by 
some hereabouts, must hav'e nevertheless 
sprung from a wise source. Without it, there 
would never be progress. 

Tlie unfortunate part of it is that griping 
may become unwarranted and indiscriminate. 
By whatever name you call it, the voicing 
of one’s opinion can be a constructive means 
to an advantageous end. It can be, but so 
often isn’t. 

To cite a recent example; the students’ 
verbal knifing of the Administration for the 
change made in their seating arrangement in 
the stadium. Tlie action of the .Vdministration 
was expedient; but very few of the disgrun¬ 
tled, if any, bothered to investigate tlie mo¬ 
tives behind it. 

There is the other matter of a mucli-de- 
sired ami greatly needed student union. 
Strangely enougli (to those «ho ne\ er in¬ 
quired about the wealth of the university) 
Duke does not have at its financial fingertiiis 
tlie million necessary to construct such a 
union. Duke is reputed to be one of the 
wealthier institutions in the country. The en¬ 
dowment which supports it is an undeniably 
handsome sum, but endowments are not all 
they ajqiear to be on the surface. 

.Vs is the fault of too many editorial 
writers, I have raised questions without offer¬ 
ing answers. If the reader is sincerely con¬ 
cerned with the Student-.Vdniinistration cleav¬ 
age, which is the chief source of the constant 
belittling, I suggest that he get the facts first, 
and then gripe. Or as C'onfucius says: .V 
wise rebuttle deals a heavy blow. 

The Editor. 

THE ARCHIVE, October, 1946 


College Type^ 

Durham’s Smartest Women’s Shop 










i\ ationally 



Ready to take a young sophisticate dining, 
dancing and dating ... is this worldly little 
two-piece dress by annieF^tirieo\ Minneapolis 
with its touches of polished black satin on 
"Pelican", a fine black crepe by SHIRLEY, 


THE ARCHIVE, October, 1946 


Vol. Sixty October, 1946 No. 2 

In This Issuer 

This Month . page 3 

Concerning . Page 3 

Archie Speaks . page 7 

The Ducks . page 9 

By William Styi-on 

7’he Poe t’s 1’age . page 11 

'I'he I’at'tern of the Moth . ... pasie 12 

B\ Bill Stiltger 

Honor 6'ystem. page 14 

Sketches . page 16 

By William Sty ran 

Book Reviews. page IS 

By Robert I). Loomis 

A Monthly MagaTine Published by the Students of Duke University 
Durham, \orth Carolina 

The publication of articles on controversial topics does not necessarily mean that the Editor or the Uni¬ 
versity endorses them. The names and descriptions of all characters in the fiction of this magazine arc 
fictitious. Any resemblance to any person or persons is not intended and is purely coincidental. 

Notice of entry: ’Acceptance for mailing at special rate of postage provided for in Section 1105, Act of 
October 3, 1917. Authorized December 4, 1924.’* Entered as second-class mail matter at the 
Post Office at Durham, N. C. 


Copyright, October, 1946, by Clifford E. Blackwell 

THE ARCHIVE, October, 1946 




Exclusive at 




In plaid or check, June Bent¬ 
ley's newest one piecer is a 
winnerl Elbow length Bell 
sleeves . . . high round neck 
. . . and full, center-pleated 

Wide leather belt to whittle 
your waistline! Parker 
Wilder’s Clan Plaid or Giant 
Check in wool and rayon. 
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THE ARCHIVE, October, 1946 

Archie Speaks 

|TN case you didn’t meet me last is- 
- sue, I’m Archie, campus snoop ex- 
Hraordinaire, the voice at your shoulder, 
the joke on the back of your mind. 
jThat’s me. And I’m glad to meet you. 

\ I don’t have much else to do other 
ithan to roam about the campus, noting 
the foibles of my schoolmates, chuckl- 
|ing gleefully at the faux pas of those 
'hyper-sensitive coeds, and recording it 
ifor posterity in the august pages of the 

I ***** * 

I Archie has noticed several changes 


jsince he came back from the wars — 
'all on the East campus. The West 
campus is still much the same. There 
•are a few more people around than be- 
jfore, and the heavy influx of veterans 
has resulted in an older, more mature 
'group of men; but, by and large. West 
'remains unchanged in appearance. 

: But on East—ah, there, what a dif- 
i ference. 

\ The coeds, who used to dress with 
'such neatness and sweetness that a Chi- 
,cago Daily "Erihune writer was moved 
to report “At Duke all girls look like 
butterflies,” now would shock the same 
reporter to a case of verbal diarrhea, 
j The horrible dungarees they wear 
lare beyond description. Rolled thigh- 
high, the dungarees on a Duke coed 
become a nightmare frame for knobby 
knees and untanned calves which in the 
decorous days of just a few years back 
would never have been allowed to tor¬ 

ment the vision of the defenseless males. 
And those wonderful Sloppy Joe sweat¬ 
ers have now been replaced by grue¬ 
some lumberjack shirts which—if noth¬ 
ing else—definitely de-emphasize the 
sex appeal. All in all, Archie can 
truthfully report he hasn’t seen an out¬ 
standing sweater yet. 

And Duke dances, which used to he 
showplaces for coed decorum, typi¬ 
fied by sedate couples moving calmly 
througli waltzes, rumbas, and an oc¬ 
casional smooth conga, have degener¬ 
ated into wild movie-like affairs with 
the girls flinging themselves about mad¬ 
ly, throwing up their arms, and emit¬ 
ting sudden shrieks of enjoyment 
which paral)ze the ear, heart, and 
morale of the casual observer. 

It wasn’t so long ago that jitterbug- 
ging in any form was frowned upon 
by East campus watchguards. And if 
in the course of a dance a couple (such 
as E. P. Bethune and Ann Fouch) 
would swing it out a little, the other 
couples on the floor W'ould form a cir¬ 
cle to watch and applaud, rather than 
attempt the dance themselves. 

Now, what tlo we have? A dift'er- 
ent situation entirely. No longer do 
coeds whisper anxiously in your ear “I 

hope you don’t jitterbug.” And when 
you answered “Of course not,” they 
would smile approvingly and say, “I 
knew it. You didn’t look the type.” 

Nowadays they don’t even bother to 
question you. And how many times has 
Archie seen a male looking helplessly 
as his dance partner suddenly generated 
into motion with hip-swinging aban¬ 
don irregardless of the fact that he, 
himself, was standing stock-still. 

The over-all social situation has 
changed markedly, also. The Fresh¬ 
men girls, traditionally, have been the 
most popular girls on campus. "V'ear 
after year, the Groomes and Green- 
wells, Ottos and Hylands, Smoots and 
Brooks, Garretts and Wiggins would be 
rushed to the death by eager upper¬ 

Now the picture has changed com¬ 
pletely. The upperclassmen, mostly re¬ 
turned veterans, have shifted their so¬ 
cial aims to the Juniors and Seniors. 
The way the veterans think about the 
Freshmen w'itli their twice a week dat¬ 
ing limit—it just isn’t worth the effort. 

As one veteran put it, “The only 
thing to do about Freshmen girls is to 
marrv them, or ignore them.” 

Sorry there, Mollv, Sally, Sue, and 

Jo- ' 


W'ell, children, .Archie must bid you 
<rood-bve for this issue. But be on the 
watch. We’ll be around again. 

THE ARCHIVE, October, 1946 




"a*- .'ly* «* 

• ’.-t ' 




'T'RANK 'J'HORN'rON, bundled 
thickly in a light brown hunting 
jacket, squatted with his gun in hand 
and gazed upw'ard into the grey light 
of early morning. At his side in the 
duckblind his dog lay half-covered by 
the decoy bag, shivering in his sleep. 
As Thornton gazed out over the wa¬ 
ter, he could see the first pale light 
of the dawn slanting up over the wide 
reach where the river met the bay. A 
few feet from the blind, the decoys 
bobbed softly in the lapping waves 
which crept in little eddies against the 

Thornton cautiously peered through 
the dried reeds out across the river. As 
he did, the cold breeze whistling in¬ 
shore blew flush against his red and 
puffy face. With a slow motion he 
wiped away the tears which came to his 
eyes at each chilly gust of wind. He 
mumbled silently under his breath, 
grunting at the cold and the discom¬ 
fort, and again carefully parted the 
reeds. The middle of the river, a mile 
away, was empty and misty. A low- 
lying blanket of haze was gently rising 
I from the channel, revealing the 
Ishadows of the fish stakes and, farther 
iout, the tiny black specks which were 
I flocks of widgeon and mallard. 

“Why don’t they rise.?” he thought. 
“Were they going to sit out there and 
feed until the sun came up?” 

The river was silent. As he crouched 
there, Thornton could hear only the 
isound of the crows squawking in the 
icornfield behind him, and occasionally 
.the far-off report of a shotgun in the 
farmland to the north. 

Thornton had been there shivering 
for nearly forty-five minutes, huddled 
in the wretched cold. Whatever 
prompted him to come here every win¬ 
ter was beyond reason. It was always 
this constant waiting in the chilly 
mornings, squatting in the damp sand, 
forever shiverin<>:. And now, during 

f & 

the past few years, these solitary hunt¬ 
ing trips had ceased to be a pastime, 
and were more and more an habitual 

contest with the weather and his own 
patience. 'I'he ducks were getting more 
scarce, that was true. And the Fish¬ 
eries Commission wouldn’t allow river 
blinds, so you had to sit in the con¬ 
founded sand on shore and shiver and 
curse and wait for the ducks to fly over 
the beach—which was seldom. Next 
winter he’d rent a blind on the Chesa¬ 
peake, perhaps buy a small boat with an 
outboard. He smiled and ran a gloved 
hand over his chapped lips as he en¬ 
visioned a sturdy blind on the Bay, 
with perhaps a lodge on shore (but that 
would cost money), and great flights 
of mallard flying over the blind, wings 
down, and plummeting with a splash 
into the water as he released two well- 
aimed barrels. He clenched his gun 
and strained Ids eye upward into the 
faintly silvered sky. 

1 hen Thornton relaxed and sat 
back down onto the sand, one hand 
resting lightly on the head of the dog 
that shivered and snuffled painfully as 
he slept. Thornton’s eyes wandered 
back to the little rise of ground above 
the beach where his old car was parked 
beneath a scrubby tree. It was strange, 
he thought, how he kept coming back 
to this same place year after year. Of 
course, that new young doctor—whom 
he did not trust too much, anyway— 
had told him that his heart would not 
take this sort of weather any more. A 
man of ’Fhornton’s age, he had said, 
was not expected to sit in the sand like 
this, to wade in leak}’ boots in the ic}’ 
water, and to withstand the excite¬ 
ment, mild as it might be, of hunting. 
Especially with 'Fhornton’s blood pres¬ 
sure being the erratic torrent that it 

“WAdl,” 'Fhornton mused, “you’re 
onl}' young once.” But young? No, he 
couldn’t say that. A man’s not young 
when he’s a more-than-flabby specimen 
of fifty-five. But a person must be 
philosophical about such things. 'Fhorn- 
ton, although he was a man of prac¬ 
ticality, and a good fellow to boot, was 
given to musings, strange thoughts 

which came tf) him at odd moments, 
moments such as this, even in this cold 
morning air. They came usually when 
he was alone, away from the noise of 
the city, in the quietness along the 
river shore. He had never told any¬ 
one his thoughts, not even Marie; they 
would sound rather silly if he spoke 
them aloud. But though he was per¬ 
turbed and even exalted by these 
thoughts, he suspected that the law of 
chance should have it that others 
thought in the same manner. F,ver\- 
one has a philosophy, he reflected. 
What did this Omar say.? “flat, drink, 
and be merry. . . .” 'Fhat was a good 
philosophy, he had concluded, even 
though it wasn’t accepted by the Meth¬ 
odists. He chuckled to himself as he 
thought of Marie’s reaction if he 
should reveal his contemplations. She’d 
probabl}' pack up and leave, what with 
her church circles and pra\ers every 
night. But it was funny, all right. 
B'ime and space, for instance. Try and 
define time, '^'ou could measure it; it 
was there. But what was it? Oh, well. 

. . . 1 he world was too full of trou¬ 
bles, what with the strikes and Harry 
Truman and the poor starving Poles, to 
worry about such generalities. 

sharp, piping sound, a rippling 
whistle came through the clear air 
above the river. Thornton pushed him¬ 
self up to a half-standing position and 
thrust aside a bunch of reeds. Just out¬ 
side of gunshot range, a lone jiintail 
soareil downwanl ami lit on the grey 
water. He bobbed there for a moment, 
ducking his head for food. 'Fhornton 
watchetl tenseh, and released the safety 
catch on the gun. 

“Come in, come in,” he muttered to 
himself. “Come on in.” 

'Fhe pintail turned his black crowned 
head toward the shore. He seemed to 
be gazing at the decoys. Fhen, as if he 
suspected at that moment something 
queer about the nodding cork thicks 
near the beach, he wheeled about (pn’ck- 
1\ in the water and took off with a 
f CoiilhiiieJ on Si'.M Fiigf) 

THE ARCHIVE, October, 1946 


-- Si '.'.SI- ilinvn the river, 'rhoni- 
the pintail until it ilis- 
-li, iil-ivk dot v'li the horizon, 
i ' ;'::>n cursed quieth, and janiined 

-’etv hack in irritation. 

“lii.;Sted pintail," he t h o u g h t. 
“HI.-.'ted I'isheries Cimiinission." It 
thev would just let a person build a 
h! nd a hundred vards out, it would he 
e.i>\. Hut the ducks wouldn't fly over 
the shore, unless there was a strong on- 
shi>re breeze, riie blasted ducks were 
;lwa\s out of range. 

He sat down again in the sand. The 
dog woke up and stared at "riiornton 
w ith sleep\ eves. 

“'rhat's all right, old bov,” he 
murmured. 'T ou just wait. \\ e’ll get 
'em. Y ou'll see.” 

rhornton crosslv broke open the 
breech end of the gun and checked his 
shells. Then he snapped the stock and 
barrel together with a sharp crack. By 
God, he’d get some ducks today if it 
was the last thing he did. He’d walk 
into the house with the ducks held high, 
tied together bv their feet, and the 
clotted blood on their w'ings. What 
would Marie say then.^ Yes, what 
would she say? Well, as usual she 
Would not say much of anything— 
merely walk up to him in that weary 
manner and kiss him on the cheek and 
say, “How nice,” in her tired, listless 
voice. It seemed of late that she was 
always tired, not saying much of any¬ 
thing, simply looking at him with her 
sleepy eyes, smiling now and then, not 
saying much at all. What got into a 
Woman at that age? What made them 
act like that.' Hy God, he bet that 
Helen Chappell. . . . Well now, what 
made him think of Helen Chappell? 
But that w'asn’t too strange. He had 
thought of her often—not incessantly, 
■-■f course, but often enough—since he 
and .Marie had been married. 

But she was a peach, though, wasn’t 
she.' He remembered her sitting at the 
table in Cole’s that night. How long 
ago.' Twenty-eight years? No, twenty- 
nine, because it was in that year that 

. . . Oh, well: twent\-eight. It didn’t 
matter. Hut he remembered the way she 
looked down at the table, her blonde 
hair falling at the sitles of her face, 
and the wav she ran her finger slowly 
down the crack in the slate-top of the 
table as she listened to him talk. And 
then she looked up and he thought she 
was going to answer him. 

But all she said was: “We’d better 
go, Frank.” 

So they left that evening, and that 
was tlic way it was. And a week later, 
Thornton leartied tliat she had become 
engaged to Harry Snider. But that was 
the way it was. A man had to be 
philosophical about such things, even in 
those days. 

So what did he do then? Well, he 
met Marie and courted her like the 
young fellows did in those days—very 
quietly and soberly, and at the same 
time full of small laughter. Then 
they got married. She wasn’t too much 
to look at, but she had what he sup¬ 
posed was a “sweet” face, and a sort 
of gentle, quiet laugh which she still 
had, even to this day. By God, though, 
he didn’t know what happened to 
Helen. That night she just walked 
away and never came back. He was 
never given a chance to ask why or how, 
and he could only guess that he had 
said something which offended or hurt 
her. It took him a while to get over 
it, even after he was married. There 
were those first hot, passionate nights 
when he kept saying: “Oh, Marie 
honey, Marie honey,” and when he 
really was trying to think of Helen 
Chappell, of Helen lying there in his 
arms. But after a while he forgot 
about her, except for the times when 
her brief image would come to his 
mind for a moment or two and then 

Well, he had no cause to complain. 
Marie was a good wife. She knew how 
to take care of a person. Of course, 
after young Frank died, she said that 
she would have no more children. It 
was quite a shock to her. She had 

wanted a kid so bad. You could hardl\ 
blame her, though, not wanting to gc 
through that trouble all over again, 
being afraid that the same thing mig'bl 

o c> to 

happen. But they had managed. Chil¬ 
dren weren’t everything, although 
Thornton had begun to wonder lately 
if a young boy might not be pretty 
fine to have around for company or 
one of these trips, or when Marie went 
into one of those mopey spells. 

The sun was coming up over the Bay. 
and the grey sky began to brighter 
with streaks of orange. The leaves on 
the small trees at the edge of the corn¬ 
field had stopped their rustling and 
trembling. It was getting warmer. 
Thornton took off his gloves, care¬ 
fully stuck them in the decoy bag, and 
peered out from the side of the blind. 
Out on the river the mist had lifted, 
He could see the woodland on the othei 
shore; and outlined against it in the 
channel the ducks bobbed like pinhead; 
far out beyond the rickety fish stakes. 
Two seagulls lifted up from the water 
near the beach with a short splash, and 
winged slowly over the blind. It oc¬ 
curred to Thornton that seagulls were 
very smart. They knew a duck hunter 
when they saw one. They knew hd 
was not after gulls. Or were they jusl 
stupid? Perhaps the fact that no one 
ever shot at them made them dull- 
witted about such matters. With a sigh 
he sat down again behind the blind anc 
lit a cigar, taking care to blow the 
smoke downward toward the sand. 

Thornton’s eyes wandered back to¬ 
ward his car. It was certainly nothing 
much more than a junk heap, but i: 
manapied to get him down to the river 
each year. The cylinders were acting 
up again, though, and the inside was i 
mess. When the prices came down or 
the new cars, he would have to get one I 
or even a good used car. By God 
though, wasn’t money a pain in th< 
neck? Ed Miles had said to him ; i 
few days ago that money wasn’t every 
thing; but that was the way it was witl, | 
(Continued on Page 21) 


THE ARCHIVE, October, 194i 

T'he Poefs Pagtj 


In parting come the pain 
Of love. The heart beats in vain 
Protest against unaccustomed change. Em¬ 

'Ties become shredded, 

Open wounds which no hemoglobin that may 
jStem froiii sympathy can stay 
Or scab. The flux of life flows 
Ever out. Hy never-ending, prophetic scenes 
one knows 

What might have been. . . . Now, the last 
Drop gone, a shell of the past 
Is left in alien surroundings. 

.The present is dying, and soundings 
Show tlie future to be dead. 

Yet pulse still beats through muddled head. 
For reflection leaves 

'A soft smell on the evening breeze. . . . 

'a faint glow of memory on the blind 
Horizon of the mind. 

—Robert D. Loomis 


Time was when melancholy attitiule 
Prevailed, and worlds did turn in weary state. 
'Birds sang from habit songs of somber mood, 
.\nd Tellers had but sad tales to relate. 

A sunrise brought to me no joy, for I 
Had no desire to see another day'. 

Old, trodden paths seemed alien, and my 
I Poor heart, bewildered, dazed, had lost the 
‘ way. 

But then, when I had given over all. 

When Fortune’s smile seemed turned into a 

'Then you appeared. Oh, dreamed of change! 

' Bleak Fall 

I Became sweet Spring, and Hope brought 
1 death to Fear. 

jFor when we met, I found in each caress 
renaissance of love ami happiness. 

—Robert D. Loomis 

Speak Softly Now 

s[)eak softlv now 
if y'ou woidd please me. 
for thouglits are bred 
in the silence of night; 
and in my lonely room, 
jdace names float hauntingly. 
hush. . . the east river passes 
towers of checkered light, 
somewhere in the million- 
footed city is she, 
somewhere . . . somewhere. . . . 
and i may find her 
only in the still and lone, 
if you would ]dease me, 
speak softlv now. 

—Robert D. Loomis 

Oh My Blindness 

Beware, O shades of Shakespeare! 'Furn and 

For disrepute comes swift from my deft 

In my strict lines you meet your doom— 
your boss! 

For sonnet writing, style and beat commands. 
.Methitiks these lines be perfect sonnet form. 
'Fen syllables each line contains, ))lease note— 
No deviation, just accepted norm. 

For faults, care is the perfect antidote. 

To feel the steady throb of certain feet 
Has been the poet’s dearest, prayed for love. 
So I feel proud I can with such case meet 
The fine requirements mentioned just above. 
••Ml this is perfect rytlmi nicely caught. 

Quite true! .Vnd rhyme is here—but where’s 
the thought? 

—Robert D. Loomis 


A jagged piece 
of silvered glass. 

•A gilded framed 

.•\11 we are 
as on we pass 
is told in its 

Touch the roughenetl 
edge of truth— 

Dim the shine 
with tear. 

l ime will kiss 
a si-ar of youth— 

That way to 
one more year. 

Step on the pattern, 
see it break; 
hear tinkles 
and the jangles. 

Ideals when shattered 
cause an ache— 

But life will spray 
new angles. 

.And so I walk 
on shattered glass, 
and all the while 
I listen. 

For life is fragile. 

.\s I t resjiass, 
like mirrors 
my eyes glisten. 

— Halbren 

THE ARCHIVE, October, 1946 


THt PflITtfiO 
Of Tfit mOTH 

l>y Bill Siiitger 

M AL’DE had never completelv lost 
her tear of the suhwav. Before 
coming ti; New "^’ork slie liad read a 
rather gor\’ account of an accident that 
had happened on the I. R. T., and 
ever since that time she experienced a 
feeling of impending disaster upon en¬ 
tering the siibwa\ and one of relief 
after leaving it. The woman in the 
newspaper report liad tried unsuccess¬ 
fully to enter a crowded car, getting 
her coat caught in the closing doors and 
had been dragged to a hideous death 
when the car began to move into the 

Even though it was almost four in 
the morning and the station at 137th 
Street was vacant except for her and a 
man who was pacing quietly up and 
down, .Maude dreaded the ride down¬ 
town to Sheridan Square. In the day¬ 
time the noisy crowds kept her mind 
off the possibilities of disaster to a 
great e.xtent, but late at night the sub¬ 
way seemed to take on new and even 
more ominous characteristics. To 
•Maude, an almost empty train, speeding 
under the city, appeared to be run by a 
force stronger than man’s. 'Ehen too, 
the train itself had a powerful persoii- 
ality that frightened her; it seemed as 
though it could go where it wished, 
disregarding any mechanical influence 
or control. 

.Vlaude folded her Daily 'News over 
her pocketbook and sat down on one of 
the benches. She watched the old man 
for a moment, then glanced at the ad¬ 
vertisements on the other side of the 

tracks. She decided that she and Ethel 
would have to go to the new show at 
the Capitol. They could have gone the 
following Saturday night if Ethel’s 
mother and sister hadn’t arrived unex¬ 
pectedly from upstate that night. Now 
Ethel would be tied up for a week. She 
and Ethel had gone to dinner and a 
double feature that night, but with the 
arrival of Ethel’s family and with the 
lack of space at her place, Maude had 
had to leave. She had pretended not to 
be annoyed at the prospect of returning 
to her apartment at four in the morn¬ 
ing, but having her one night away 
from the drabness of her own room- 
and-a-half interrupted was rather dis¬ 

She glanced again at the man who 
was pacing up and down in front of 
the benches and then opened her news¬ 
paper. Before she had come to New 
York all her friends at home had told 
her how fascinating it would be to 
watch all the characters on the subway, 
but Maude thought that most of them 
were just disgusting and avoided any 
two-minute personality analysis be¬ 
tween stops. 

While she was reading Danton 
Walker’s column she was slowly con¬ 
scious of the sudden silence in the sta¬ 
tion. She looked toward the entrance 
turnstiles and saw that the man had 
stopped walking and was leaning against 
one of them. Apparently he wasn’t 
even aware of her presence as he gazed 

Illustrated by Pat Wimberley 

passively at the floor, but Maude felt 
that he had just looked away from her. 
She returned to Danton Walker but 
.soon found that her mind wasn’t on the 
chit-chat in his column: she was only 
pretending to read. Occasionally she 
let her eyes wander past the advertise¬ 
ments to the man, and each time he was 
looking at the floor. He was hatless, 
and his tie hung outside his coat, and 
Maude couldn’t tell if he were drunk 
or just tired. The harsh light shone on 
his brown hair and created dark circles i 
around his eyes so that Maude was not 
quite sure if he were actually looking 
down, or if those hidden eyes were 
watching her. 

She got up and walked to the edge 
of the platform and anxiously wished : 
that the train would come. But the 
stretch of faintly-lighted tunnel held 
only silence. She wondered why they 
didn’t run the express trains after one 
o’clock, and pushed back her coat sleeve 
to check the time. Four-ten. As she 
turned to go back to the bench, the 
man suddenly sneezed; and the unex¬ 
pected sound echoed back and forth in i 
the lonely station. The noise startled i|i 
her and she looked at him again. This 
time he was busy blowing his nose; but 
when he finished, he stared at Maude a 
moment and then looked at the floor. 
Maude sensed a hidden meaning in his 
glance. She started to tear small bits 
of paper from the News and dropped 
them on the floor. Maybe, she thought, 

I should go back to Ethel’s and call a 
cab. The whole thing would seem so 
silly, though. A strange man, her own 
over-worked nerves and—something 
Ethel was bound to mention—too many 
movies. She stood with her back to the 
stranger and waited for the train. The 
small bits of paper continued to flutter 
noiselessly to the floor. Maude could 
not rationalize herself out of the feel¬ 
ing that the man was watching her. 

Of course, she thought, what dif¬ 
ference does it make anyhow. There 
were plenty of times that she had been 
the victim of subway stares, and she 


THE ARCHIVE, October, 1946 

had always managed to get by without 
any trouble. From the way Ethel 
talked yon would think that ninet\' per 
cent of the females in New '^’ork were 
stared at and followed on the subway. 
Now she wished she had not thought of 
being followed. The idea always made 
her uneasy, especially after all of 
Ethel’s lurid stories of what might hap¬ 

Finally she heard the growing rum¬ 
bling of the train coming south and 
breathed as though she had been under 
water. She noticed that her hands were 
perspiring, but the sound of the nearing 
train and the thought of getting home 
were enough to calm her nerves. She 
thought of what a good story she would 
have to tell Ethel over the phone in 
the morning. 

The train screeched into the station 
and stopped. Maude stood aside as three 
bleary-eyed men got off, then she en¬ 
tered the train and sat near the door 
of an empty coach. An ugly fear shook 
her as she saw the strange man come 
into her coach from a forward one and 
sit down on the opposite side near the 
end. Before she could change her mind, 
the train carried them into the bowels 
of the city. 

She tried to read the ads on the other 
side of the car, but they were as mean¬ 
ingless as a foreign language to her. She 
opened her newspaper again but the 
words blurred and ran together. With¬ 
out looking at him she knew that she 
was being watched. Each time the train 
stopped she waited breathlessly to see if 
he were going to leave. But after each 
stop they were still together in the car. 

Being followed, being followed, she 
thought. She knew that she had to stop 
letting her imagination run away. Why, 
the whole business was no more than a 
minor coincidence. But the loud scrap¬ 
ing of the wheels against the tracks 
seemed to yell “Eollowed!” when the 
train stopped. 

Between 50th Street and "Fimes 
Square the lights in the car flashed off 
and on. At the moment the car was in 

darkness the man sneezeil again. Maude 
felt her heart pounding, and the tingling 
sensation of fear mingled with ex¬ 
pectancy ran through her body. 

At 'Fimes Square two sailors on their 
way to the Staten Island Ferry got on 
and lay down on the seats. I'heir silent 
presence gave .Maude the moral strength 
she needed to go on to Sheridan Square 
and her apartment. She even daretl to 
venture a glance at the corner ot the 
car; but when she did, her eyes met 
his and for a moment they regarded 
each other with complete understand¬ 
ing. Quickly she looked away ami 
closed her eyes, and at the same time 
felt as though she were going to be 
sick. His eyes and that smile and what 
was worse, the terror of her own ad¬ 

With her eyes closed and with the 
constant racket of the train as it sped on 
to Penn Station, she dareil to think that 
she might be dreaming. But the small 
group ot people who got on at the next 

stop dispelled any such hope. 'Fhey 
were talking loudlv and one small man 
who sat next to .Maude was explaining 
a complicated movie to his girl friend. 
'Fhere was no courage left in Maude 
now. Even a crowd of people made no 
difference. She was there and he was 
there and what had happened was be¬ 
yond regret. 

The next few stops were a senes of 
jerks and noises. .Anil with a sudden 
start, .Maude realized that there were 
onlv two stops before she had to get 
off. It took an almost overpowering 
effort for her not to look at the man 

.After the next two stations, she got 
up and stood in front of the center 
doors and waited for the train to stop. 
■As Soon as the doors o|iened she rushed 
out and hurried up the stairs to the 
street. She leaned against the side of a 
building on the corner and viewed the 
familiar sights. It seemed odd to see 
((.'oiiiitiiifJ on Pit 'r.i 

THE ARCHIVE, October, 1946 


Student governments in schools and 
colleges throughout the democratic 
world are founded upon a single prin¬ 
ciple: the education of potential citi¬ 
zens and leaders in the functions of a 
democracy. To justify the existence of 
student government, its members strive 
for improvement and progress. The 
goal is the embodiment of every in¬ 
dividual with a sense of personal re¬ 
sponsibility and integrity. 

Until 1779, student government, in 
spite of its ideal, was little more than 
a police system. At that time the fac¬ 
ulty of the College of William and 
.Mary in Virginia, “inspired by their 
ideal of democracy and their faith in 
human nature,” conceived a fundamen¬ 
tal plan for developing honrjr among 

the students. This plan of college dis¬ 
cipline became known as the “honor 
system.” Since then, the theory and 
practice of the honor system has been 
assumed in other centers of learning, 
until it has become a foundation in the 
architecture of education. 

The functional specifications of the 
honor system (which is installed in 
schools ranging from Reformatories to 
more scholarly institutions) are essen¬ 
tially the same everywhere. In order 
to establish an honor system, there must 
be a large majority vote from the stu¬ 
dent body. This is necessary since an 
honor system demands the unanimous 
support of its sponsoring body. In all 
cases freshmen are indoctrinated with 
the machinery of the honor system 

Art Gilbert, Pi Kappa Alpha, 
Says Of The Honor System: 

“/ am ‘very much in favor of insti¬ 
tuting the honor system at Duke. I hold 
the honor systein to be a method of fair 
flay enabling each student to exercise 
his own honesty and integrity. Hoxu- 
ever, the proposition requiring any stu¬ 
dent witnessing an offense to report the 
offender is not the honor system.^’ 

either before or shortly after entering 

All student organizations which fos¬ 
ter honor systems require that the com¬ 
ponent individuals sign a pledge. A 
typical pledge might read: 

1. Are you in favor of an honor 

2. Would you personally abide by 
the honor system.? 

3. Since reporting of infractions is 
essential to the success of an honor sys¬ 
tem, would you pledge yourself to re¬ 
port all infractions known to you.? 

Sixty-five schools out of eighty-seven 
investigated maintain successful and 
working honor systems. From all of 
these colleges it is reported that there is 
no standard penalty for infraction of 


THE ARCHIVE, October, 1946 

Marjorie Frey, Kappa Kappa 
j Gaiiiiiia, Opines On The 
Honor System: 

A cceptatice of the honor system 
I ivill stimulate much needed Duke 
, morale. It will strengthen individual 
^ integrity as well as 7nutual resfect 
I among us. When we attam the goal of 
honor in the classroom, we shall re- 
' alize all the advantages of self-govern- 
; merit and tue shall be prepared to put 


I them in operation!^ 

the honor system code. I’unishment 
ranges from a brief campus restriction 
to expulsion. In one school the penalty 
is the addition of the number of se¬ 
mester hours retpiired for graduation. 

I'he most contested point in the 
honor system plan is the question of 
reporting. Most students object to be¬ 
ing sell-appointed judiciaries. They do 
not consider it expedient to judge their 
contemporaries. 'J'he composite honor 
system provides for reporting to be 
done by one of three means: 

1. The offender may report himself 

2. I'he offender may report himself 
after being warned bv a witness to his 
breach of the honor code. 

3. I he offender may be reported by 

the observer without warning. 

'I'he hypothetically perfect honor 
system has no place for reporting. The 
individual is his own proctor on an 
exam, in lab, or wherever written work 
is required outside of class. Unfortu¬ 
nately such an honor system would 
have to be practiced by a group of 
hypothetically perfect individuals. A 
situation such as this does not ami can¬ 
not exist, 'riiere is no such thing as a 
perfect honor system. 

A pamphlet, containing a noteworthy 
passage relative to the \'irtue of rejiort- 
ing, was circulated at Duke last fall. 
That passage is quoted as follows: 

“Sometimes we fail to realize the 
necessity of reminding those who do 
not live u|i to an honor s\stem thev 

have committed a misdeed. Some con¬ 
sider it an act of friendliness to over¬ 
look these faults. But is itr .Many of 
us are tempted to trv to hiile c)ur mis¬ 
conduct. Courage is requirctl to admit 
an error; courage is required to point 
out or censure the errors of others. \Vc 
are strengthencHl b\ admission; we are 
weakened by concealment.” 

Originally “honor svstem” was the 
term used to describe tlie existence of 
mutual confidence between the student 
body and the facultt. The broadest 
allowance toward student freedom 
made by any honor system is found in 
the honor plan of the universitv which 
gave birth to the plan of utilizing 
group integritt. ,\t the Colleixe of 

((.'oatiiiiii J on Pii^r -r. i 

THE ARCHIVE, October, 1946 



S II n C H £ s 



M.\N IVEh' 


TE c 



with cqua 




\\ '. ■ 

:h is 

the product e 

if mediocre 

or in- 

SlIU - 

re , 



\\:i\ I look 

at it, 



pp- :i 


his feet up 

on his 


, “the 


im porta nee 

o f a 


is its 

truth. It isn't iK-ccss.Try tliat everybody 
dciwn in limpsonweed Junction read or 
nnirniber it. It it’s a good book, some- 
bodv will read it.” 

Dr. White, a tall, bespectacled man 
in his c-arlv fifties, is a Duke alumnus 
and, incidentallv, is represented by sev¬ 
eral poems in Our and Ticr?!ty, the re¬ 
cent Duke anthology of student prose 
and verse. In spite of the fact that he 
is lU'W chairman of the Duke depart¬ 
ment of English, he exhibits as much 
an outward air of scholarship as the 
corner druggist. In conversation he 
has a wav of leaning back in his chair 
and rambling heartily away in an agree¬ 
able Southern accent. This is all rather 
disconcerting to those who fancy the 
hi-iumapher of Shelley as perhaps a 
bumptious old fuddy-duddy, and is like- 
Iv to squelch the idea that all scholars, 
especially English scholars, are given to 

In case you didn’t know. Dr. White 
is author of a two-volume biography, 
Shelley, published in 1940, which the 
N'l-w York Tbnes, imbued with an ex¬ 
cusable amount of fervor, called “a 
monumental work which will endure 
as long as the poet’s fame—and that is 
deathless.” In addition to this book, he 
has published, during the last fifteen 
years, three volumes concerning Shelley, 
and a score or so of scholarly papers, 
all of w'hich should qualify him as 
..ome Sort of an authority on the great 
Rf>mantic poet. There is little doubt 

Newman Ivy White 

that Dr. White’s work will be remem¬ 
bered in Jimpsonweed Junction. 

Dr. White occupies a somewhat clut¬ 
tered office in West Duke building. 
Two doors away is the office of Mrs. 
White, a calm, pleasant woman, who, 
besides teaching English on the East 
campus is something of an authority on 
modern drama. Dr. and Mrs. White 
met when he was teaching at Wash¬ 
ington University in St. Louis and she 
was a student in his class in 18th cen¬ 
tury literature. They were married in 
1922; she then came to Durham where 
Dr. White was teaching in Trinity 
College. Mrs. White, who has, as she 
puts it, the “teaching instinct,” has been 
a member of the faculty since 1929 and 
has found Duke students, it might be 

Caricature By Clarence Brown 

helpful to know, not only interesting, 
but also amusing. 

It is often a subject of wonderment 
to people just how one starts out to be¬ 
come a biographer. It is one thing to 
like a poet and read him, but it is quite 
another thing, as Dr. White will at¬ 
test, to devote much of one’s whole life 
to his study. 

“I first got interested in Shelley,” 
Dr. White related, “back in 1915, 
when I was writing a term paper up 
at Harvard for Irving Babbitt. I was 
casting around for some subject to 
write on and finally hit upon Shelley’s 
dramatic poems. Well, I wrote the pa¬ 
per, and Babbitt was sort of impressed 
and suggested that I use Shelley as a 
subject for my doctoral dissertation. So 
I did.” 

This was the beginning of twenty- 
five years of affectionate, absorbing, and' 
sometimes exasperating labor which has 
led Dr. and Mrs. White not only into 
the musty archives of libraries in Eng¬ 
land and America, but also into practi¬ 
cally every house and locality in Eng¬ 
land where Shelley was ever reputed 
to have been. Such a multiform and 
comprehensive enterprise is naturally 
not without both its disappointments 
and triumphs, and has involved Dr. 
White in a number of nerve-wracking 
episodes. Not the least harrowing of 
these occurred when he and Mrs. 
White, on Shelley’s trail through west¬ 
ern England, visited an ancient church 
in Bristol on Easter Sunday and found 
themselves locked in, and alone. After 
an hour-long search for some sort of 
exit, and faced with the prospect of 
staying until the next service. Dr. 
White finally succeeded in obtaining 
help by shouting loudly in the tones of 


THE ARCHIVE, October, 1946 

an indisnant North Carolinian, and by 
battering frantically at the venerable 
panels of the front door. The person 
who heard him was a suspicious sort, 
thouijh, and summoned not only the 
rector, but the local constabulary, all of 
;whom greeted the two Americans with 
stony and imperious stares. It was not 
until two weeks later that the Whites 
learned from the rector that their near¬ 
incarceration was at the hands of the 
organist, a half-blind old party, who, 
iwhen he locked the place up, had not 
seen the visitors as they sat in a pew 
studiously consulting their Baedeker. 

Dr. White regards his discovery on 
Shelley’s mysterious child—the “Nea¬ 
politan charge” referred to in a number 
iof the poet’s letters, as the most sensa- 
itional item in all his long research. The 
'story is that of a child found in the 
Naples birth records bearing Shelley’s 
name and described as the daughter of 
Percy B. and Mary Shelley. But who 
the child was—whether she was the 
illegitimate child of Claire Clairmont, 
or whether (as Dr. White believes) 
she was a child adopted by the poet— 

• is incapable of absolute proof. How- 
iever, the situation which led to the epi¬ 
sode, and to which the enigmatic record 
^brought closer attention—that is, the 

• state of Shelley’s domestic life—is one 
•which changed the entire interpretation 
•of his poetry during the period, and 
I for this, at least. Dr. White feels com- 

' Lately Dr. White has been engaged 
in a scholarly tussle with Professor 
■Robert Metcalf Smith, author of a re- 
■cent book. The Shelley Legend^ which 
seeks to debunk Shelley in general, and 
■Shelley scholars in particular. In an 
jarticle in the July issue of Studies in 
Thilology, Dr. White has set forth with 
jdocumentary evidence, his own view's 
|on Professor Smith’s book, namely, that 
jit contains more factual errors, exagger- 
jations, and distortions than he has ever 
encountered in any printed book. 
When the Whites W'ere in London, 

while Dr. White was immersed in the 
local archives, Mrs. White haunted the 
local divorce courts. There was noth¬ 
ing personal in all this, as Mrs. White 
was prompt to add; rather she was 
quite interested in the workings of 
English justice. Not only are the 
British divorce courts generally more 
liberal than they used to be, but they’re 
conducted w'ith a good deal more dig¬ 
nity than those in the United States, 
which gratifies Mrs. White very much. 

Mrs. White has her opinions not 
only on divorces, but also on contem¬ 
porary drama, a course which she 
teaches here at Duke. She and Dr. 
White make occasional trips to New 
York to take in the current Broadway 
productions, and from her recent ob¬ 
servations she is able to report that the 
level of acting nowadays is far above 
the level of playwriting; though she 
thought that Maxwell Anderson’s 
Truckline Cafcy which was scorned bv 
the critics, was a superb play. 

Mrs. White repeats that she thinks 
teaching is the best occupation in the 
world, although she is still of the opin¬ 
ion after twenty years or so at the job, 
that it isn’t the easiest. 

When Dr. White was a student at 
Trinity College back in 191.3, he not 
only w'rote poetry and edited the 
Chanticleer, but was one of the best 
tennis players in the South. Since then 
he has been a bit more interested in 
Shelley than in tennis, and in a con- 
siilerable number of other subjects to 
which he has devoted a good deal of 
time and effort. One of these is Negro 
poetry and folklore; in 1924 he 
edited An Anthology of Verse by 
Anierican Slegroes, and four years later 
he published American Negro Folk 
Songs. He first became interesteil in 
Negro expression when he was an un¬ 
dergraduate here at Duke under Dr. 
Frank C. Brown. 'Phis interest in¬ 
creased when he was teaching at .Ma- 
bama Polytechnic Institute in 1916. 
'I'wo years later he attracted the atten¬ 

tion of George Lyman Kittredge, the 
great Shakespearean scholar, by a re¬ 
port which he had made on some as¬ 
pect of the subject. Later, additional 
work and research expended the report 
into American Negro Folk Songs. But 
this isn’t all. When he returned to 
Duke he found his former teacher. Dr. 
Brown, still collecting folklore. He 
had been doing so for twenty-five 
years, when he died in 1942, leaving 
unpublished and only partly organized 
a huge collection of over .30,000 items. 
It devolved upon Dr. White to organ¬ 
ize and publish it. Since then Dr. White 
has applied himself to the task, with the 
cooperation of associates in other uni¬ 
versities, and the organization has been 
virtually completed. 'J'he publication of 
the collection is forthcoming, the actual 
editing al ready being well started. 

It is a matter of curiosity to know 
just in what position the biographer of 
Shelley places him in respect to other 
English poets. 

“To say who’s the greatest among 
poets,” Dr. White said, “is like com¬ 
paring chrysanthemums and roses. Dif¬ 
ferent people like different poets for 
different things. Personally I place 
Shelley below Chaucer, Shakespeare, 
and .Milton. But I’ll rank him above 
all the rest of the English poets, except 
possibly Wordsw'orth. 'J'o me his great¬ 
ness is in his incomparable lyric beauty. 
Beyond that, he was one of the great 
missionaries of truth a/ul justice.” 

Dr. W’hite has nothing of the self- 
abnegating manner. He has the quiet, 
easy air of a man who has accom¬ 
plished something of great distinction, 
and is not altogether unaware of it. In 
regaial to his Shelley, Dr. W’hite lit a 
Philip Morris, which, incidentally he 
smokes const.inth’, and dr.iwled: “I 
wouldn’t haye written it if I didn’t 
know somebodt would read it, or if I 
didn’t think it wouKl be a good book.” 


THE ARCHIVE, October, 1946 


By Herbert Gorman 
Farrar & Rinehart. Inc. 

I'hi time is becoming more and 
niiin appropriate now for books siicli as 
this OIK b\ Mr. Gorman to appear. 
I'hi raried storm of opinions that 
;.:r(, ted Jotce’s work a few years ago 
::raduall\ has simmered down until 
now, for the most part, there remains 
onl\ the question of how high in the 
ranks of literature he should be placed. 

lames Augustine Joyce was born in 
Dublin in 1882, a time of turmoil and 
p(,)litical savagery in Ireland. His early 
schooling at Clongowes W^ood College 
and at Uni\ersity College was impor¬ 
tant to Joyce because of the fact that 
it was from this schooling that most of 
the characters and happenings that go 
to make up // Portrait of the Artist as 
a Young Man were drawn. Joyce 
showed a decided interest in English 
and foreign languages, and this early 
love for words manifests itself in his 
later writings. 

While still a youth, Joyce devel¬ 
oped a profound and worshipful ad¬ 
miration for Ibsen; and when he was 
only eighteen years old, an essay of his 
about one of the Norwegian dramatist’s 
plays w'as published in the Fortnightly 
Re^jieu; —a remarkable accomplishment 
for one so young! 

Joyce, feeling himself hemmed in 
and restricted by the narrow and set 
ways of Ireland, left Dublin for Paris 
after he graduated from college. (“I 
will not serve that in which I no longer 
believe, whether it calls itself home, my 
fatherland or my church. . . . ”) 

J o those who knew him in his first 
J^arisian days, Joyce seemed very pre¬ 

tentious. He met Synge and Casey; 
and when lie saw the former’s play 
Riders to the Sea in the manuscript, he 
complained in true Joyceian form that 
the catastrophy in the play was brought 
about in a faulty manner. Once Joyce 
took Synge to his room and showed the 
playwright a notebook full of ungram¬ 
matical “Memorabilia” which he had 
found in famous books. (In the light 
of his later works, it is interesting to 
note this early passion for grammatical 
exactness.) Joyce almost starved to 
death in Paris. He spent most of his 
time reading and writing, the one 
pound a week on which he was forced 
to live allowing him to do little else. 

In 1903, Joyce returned to Ireland 
because his mother was dying. His so¬ 
journ in Paris had not been impressive 
as far as his desire to write was con¬ 
cerned, and he almost was persuaded 
to become a professional singer. (He 
had a beautiful tenor voice.) An un¬ 
fortunate—or fortunate—incident oc¬ 
curred in an audition, however, and he 
became disgusted. He left Dublin again 
—never to return—for Paris because, 
as Gorman puts it, Ireland seemed to 
him to be “smothered by religious and 
social obligations and oppressions.” 

Now Joyce was working on the short 
stories for Dubliners and a long book 
Stephen Hero. In 1907, a little book 
of his poems. Chamber Music, was pub¬ 
lished; however, Joyce cared little 
about it and received no royalties from 
its sales. The following year, Dub¬ 
liners was sent to a London book firm; 
but procrastinating publishers delayed 
its printing for eight years! Three 
years later, in 1917, the Egoist Press 
published A Portrait of the Artist as a 
Young Man —the new title of Stephen 

Hero. He also completed a play. Ex¬ 
iles, which showed a marked influence 
of Ibsen. This play was his swan song i 
to the literature of the past, for already 
he was writing sketches for a new 
work to be called Ulysses. 

Joyce did not remain in Paris after 
he left Dublin. He divided his time : 
between Trieste, Zurich, Rome, Ber¬ 
litz, and Locarno (to name the prin¬ 
cipal places); but in 1920, he again ^ 
returned to Paris. 

Ulysses being almost completed, he 
began to look for a publisher. None 
could be found. Finally, in 1922, Syl¬ 
via Beach, owner of the now famous 
bookshop, Shakespeare and Company, ' 
agreed to undertake the task. The most 
difficult problem was to find printers ; 
who were accurate enough to accom- ■ 
plish the work. Even as it was, Joyce 
corrected six successive proofs before 
he was satisfied. The first printing was 
only one thousand copies, but by the ' 
end of the year almost three thousand < 
copies were in existence. It must be ; 
admitted that many bought the book ■, 
because they had heard that there were 
some “swell dirty parts” in it, for few 
realized what a collector’s prize they ! 
really had. Through the efforts of 
Bennett Cerf, Ulysses was admitted to ■> 
the United States in 1934. Previous to 
this time, a few plagiarized editions i 
had appeared in the United States— | 
much to the chagrin of Joyce and his j 
colleagues. | 

The early reviews of Ulysses are < 
interesting in that they vary so widely. 
Some reviewers condemned it to damn¬ 
ation, and others praised it as a classic. 
Since there were so few copies in print, i 
(Continued on Page 25) 

THE ARCHIVE, October, 1946 





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THE ARCHIVE, October, 1946 


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Baldwin’s Young Modern Shop is the home of famous 
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THE ARCHIVE, October, 1946 


(Continued from Page 10) 
people who were well set up in busi¬ 
ness. The ones who had all the money 
seemed to forget its value. Yes, and 
he remembered how Ed had managed 
to get all that money. He shouldn’t 
say “all that money,” for Ed was no 
millionaire, but by all rights (although 
Thornton disliked admitting it to any¬ 
one) he himself should be in Ed’s 
place instead of out on the route in 
the truck and reporting to Ed in his 
office three times a week. By God, 
sometimes he almost hated Ed Miles; 
but then, being sort of philosophical, he 
counted it up to bad luck, and tried to 
be as friendly to the fellow as possible. 

He remembered how it wa^ that 
day when Mr. Simmons came down to 
Richmond to appoint a new District 
Sales Manager; how he and Ed stood 
out on the steps smoking while Mr. 
Simmons sat in the office looking over 
their references and credentials; how 
Ed kept saying sort of wistfully: “Hell, 
Erank, you’ll get it. You had a year of 
college,” and how all along, right up to 
that time, Thornton was confident that 
he’d get the job. 

But Ed got the position, and after¬ 
wards, when Thornton went in, be¬ 
wildered and angry, Mr. Simmons had 
looked up at him through his thick 
glasses and said in the clipped, brusque 

“I’m sorry, Thornton, but Miles 
seems to have a more satisfying sales 
record. Martha Washington Coffee 
appoints its district managers on the 
basis of sales alone. There’s nothing 
I can do, really, you should know that.” 

Then Thornton turned and went 
out, not daring to speak, for fear that 
he’d get so mad that he’d throw some¬ 
thing at Mr. Simmons’ bald head. 
Anger was a funny thing. He didn’t 
often get mad, but when he did he felt 
as if he would burst if he didn’t do 
something, tear up things—anything. 
But getting angry never helped. After 
that he was cooler toward Ed, but 

friendly enough. It was silly to hold 
a grudge against a person. Just forget 
about it and be philosophical was the 
best policy. 

Thornton heard a dull chugging 
coming from the Bay. He peeped 
through the reeds and saw a line of 
oyster boats far down the river, heading 
upstream in the channel. 'Ehat would 
be fine, he thought. The boats would 
stir up the ducks and chase them to¬ 
ward the shore. He eased back down 
in the sand, and softly stroked the dog’s 
head, listening with pleasure to the dis¬ 
tant puttering of the engines. He’d 
just sit it out and wait and then, by 
God, the ducks were certain to come 

He relit the cigar and gazed up into 
the sky wdiere the crows were .still 
gliding over the cornfield in the early 
morning sun. It was strange, he 
thought, how cver)thing seemed al¬ 
ways out of reach. Every time he got a 
chance at something big, he muffed it. 
But it was a good thing he always had 
his philosophy to settle back on. He 
had begun to wonder during the past 
years if perhaps the Methodists weren’t 
all wrong. How did they knowt How 
may a man base his faith in anything 
sure, when everything is so uncertain.? 
Even certainty was uncertain. 'Ehe 
lodge, for instance. Why, that was 
all that he had heard the brothers talk 
about. All of them had told liim that 
he w’as a sure thing for Grand Exaltetl 
Emir, and what had happened.? 'Ehe 
nisrht of the election, they had made 
Jim Aldcrson Emir, and he had come 
out a poor third with .Most W’orthy 
Rajah. Of course he had been disap¬ 
pointed; who wouldn’t? .And it was 
<;oing to be a big year for the Lodge, 
too. But that was the way it went. 

When you had a bad heart, though, 
you couldn’t merely forget about it and 
be merry. A'ou had to put your faith 
in something. But what? Evert time 
you thought you had something sure 
—whango!—there it went. .Maybe that 
youno: doctor was wrong, anyhow. It 

was natural for a man Thornton’s asre 
to have high blood pressure, wasn’t it? 
That was the trouble with modern 
medicine. By God, every little ache and 
pain meant that you had cancer or 
thrombosis or prostate trouble. A man 
might as well have a good time w'hile 
he can. 

“Ain’t that right, boy?” he said, 
scratching the dog’s long ears, “Huh? 
How about it, boy?” 

Suddenly 'Ehornton heard a flutter¬ 
ing sound above and behind him. Six 
ducks came over, wings down and flat, 
necks strained forward, and were gone 
before he had a chance to raise and 
throw the gun to his shoulder. 'Ehorn- 
ton was trembling with excitement. He 
looked out over the water. A flock of 
ducks—nearly ten or twelve—were 
headed in low across the water tow'ard 
the ilecoys. He nervously fingered the 
stock of the gun, and spoke softly to 
the dog. 

“Ho, boy,” he whispered. “Steady. 
We’ll get ’em now.” 

'Ehornton crouched tensely behind 
the reeds, hardl)' breathing. 'I'he blood 
rushed to his brain, and he could feel 
his cheeks becoming flushed with a 
thrill of anticipation. 'Ehe ducks were 
coming in fast, skimming over the 
•'urface of the waves to the bobbing 
decoys. When they were about twice 
gunshot range, he softlv pressed against 
the safet)' catch. His whole bocU' was 
quivering in fascination as he watched 
the ducks scud past the fish stakes and 
into range. “HoUl it,” he thought, 
“hold it ’til they’re on the decoys.” 
d'hey were so close now that he could 
tell what kind they were. .All mallards. 
“Don’t tjet u|i too soon,” he cautioned 
himself. Suddenly, they were on top 
of the decot'S. 'Ehornton stood up 
cpiickh ami took a sight on a fat drake 
which was H\ing at the head of the 
fh'ck. His left h.ind shook so that he 
could hardly keep the gun steady. He 
pulled the right trigger with a sharp 
jerk. -A miss. B'rembling, he lined up 
(' Continued on Page e ? ! 

THE ARCHIVE, October, 1946 






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My Char lie y what cold hands you have . . . 

For Your Health 
For Your Pleasure 
For Your Fun 

Bring Your Dates 

Fraternity Leagues 


Opposite Post Office 
Phone R-6271 for Reservations 


THE ARCHIVE, October, 1946 

THE ARCHIVE, October, 1946 


(Continued from Page 21) 
on another drake who was swiftly head¬ 
ing down river. His eyes began to 
blur. He cursed himself silently. 
Blindly he pulled the trigger. Another 
miss. Thornton took the gun from his 
shoulder and jammed the butt in the 
sand in bitter disgust. 

“Damn!” he said. “Damn!” 

The dog was out among the de¬ 
coys, splashing about exictedly for the 
ducks which were not there. Suddenly 
Thornton saw two stray mallards wing¬ 
ing in toward the decoys from the fish 
stakes. He called frantically to the dog. 

“Come here, come here! Get out of 
there! ” 

'I'he damned dog would scare them 
away! He fumbled wildly in his pocket 
for two shells, and popped them in to 
the barrels. 

“Get out of there!” he yelled. 
“Come in here!” The dog, unheeding, 
continued to paddle around in the 
shallow water. 'rhornton crouched 
rigidly behind the blind. He saw the 
two ducks come within range and 
then, seeing the dog, they swerved in 
a wide arc to the left down the river. 
Ihornton ran madly out onto the 
beach, stumbling in the sand and drift¬ 
wood. He was breathing in deep gasps 
as he came to a halt by the water and 
raised the gun to his shoulder. 'I'aking 
a sight on the swiftly disajipearing 
ducks, he released both barrels at once. 
Both misses! Out of range. His heart 
was pounding, and his braii; ached and 
throbbed. As he stood there, his whole 
body became weak and limp, as if made 
of water. A sharp pain surged up from 
his chest and then to his neck. 'I'hen the 
river and the sunlight faded cpiickly and 
vanished. He fell forward and col¬ 
lapsed in the sand. 

'I'he dog swam to the beach, padded 
softly up to the prone figure, and 
sniffed at a limp hand. 'I'hcn he sat 
down, trembling. After a moment he 
got up, shook off the water, and trotted 
back to the shelter of the blind. 


Portables Stamlard 
New & Used 


Typewriter Service 

123 Orange Street J-8121 






Opposite Washington Duke 

Phone R-161 



Clear Sailing 

When You 
Take Your Work 
to the 



Term Papers 
Mimeograph Work 

Miss Doris Morgan, Mgr. 
Phone 5295 Union 06 

Duke University Stores 

Ow'ned and operated for your convenience 
by Duke University 

Duke University Store 
Duke Hospital Store 
Woman’s College Store 
The Haberdashery 


Be the Pride of the Campus 

Have Your Clothes Cleaned 

"Duke University Jjtundry 

The Best in Laundry and 
Dry Cleaning Service 


7:30-5:30 WEEKDAYS 7:30-3:00 SATURDAYS 


THE ARCHIVE, October, 1946 


(Continued from Page IS) 

Jhe general public had to content itself 
nerely with reading these reviews. 

Hardly had Ulysses been finished 
vhen Joyce began a new project which 
le tentatively called ]Vork in Progress. 
This book later was named Finignns 
Wake^ a work so complicated and ob- 
icure that few have the intelligence 
tven to begin to discuss it. Parts of 
P'inigans Wake were printed in transi- 
'ion under such titles as “Haveth Chil¬ 
lers Everywhere,” and “Storiella as 
She is Syung.” Apropos of these por- 
;ions were verses like the following: 

“. . . Sevensinns in her singthings, 

Plurabells on her prose, 

Sheashell ebb music wayriver she 

Humptydump Dublin squeaks 
through his norse; 

Humptydump Dublin hath a hor¬ 
rible vorse. 

But for all his kinks english plus 
his irismanx brogues 

Humptydump Dublin’s granddada 
of all rogues.” 

Joyce never forgot his Dublin. 

Unfortunately, Mr. Gorman’s prose 
is at times faintly reminiscent of an 
academic thesis. The life and times of 
James Joyce are so interesting, how¬ 
ever, that the book is fascinating in 
spite of Mr. Gorman. 

—Rober t D. Loomi.s. 

: Send 

I The Archive 


THE ARCHIVE, October, 1946 


Our welcome to . . . 

is sincere and of long standing 

For many years it has been our pleas¬ 
ure to serve the Students, Faculty 
and Organizations of Duke Univer¬ 
sity with a complete Printing and 
Engraving Service. Your every print¬ 
ing requirement will be found at 

Here too . . . 


Telephone R-781 


Printers of The Archive and The Duke Chronicle 




\\ ''i.ini and .Man. few forms of 
'wv';..' misb. haviiT are forbidden. The 
... . d eondiiet code states that "nothing 
Is f.ii'hidden but dueling, which might 
fatal to the student's life, gam- 
ding. drunkenness, and tavern hunt- 
nu. \'hich ma\ be pernicious to 
his health and morals.” Similarly 
■it Sweet Briar College in \'irginia, 
the honor svstem applies to all phases 
. f college life. Where the honor 
svstem is hrmlv entrenched into the 
machinerv of a school, there is no ques¬ 
tion about its merit in the minds of 
those who practice it. When asked 
whether or not the honor svstem worked 
at her school, one student replied, “Of 
course! There is no alternative but to 
abide bv the honor svstem.” Such is 
the enthusiastic support of the honor 
svstem.” bv students who have never 
known anv other plan of discipline. 

Dr. Joseph Roy Geiger, late profes¬ 
sor of philosophy and psychology at 
the College of William and Mary, has 
written a verv logical pamphlet dis¬ 
cussing the honor system in colleges. 
He savs that primarily the standards of 
honor within the scope of action in 
which the honor system is to be applied 
must be well-defined and generally rec¬ 
ognized bv the ranJe and file of the 
students. Secondly, he points out a very 
essential factor, “moral leadership 
within the student body of the college.” 
Faculty co-operation, he says, is also 
verv important. 

There are those students whose skep¬ 
ticism is fed by talk of honor systems. 
They express themselves in these terms: 
“If those who live under the honor 
system are possessed of a high sense 
of honor, the system is unnecessary; 
and if those who live under it are not 
possessed of a high sense of honor, it 
is impossible.” 

Last fall a movement was initiated 
at Duke by the Woman’s Student 
Council to reinstate a rather legendary 

honor system which, according to the 
records, existed at Duke from 1925 to 
1932. A committee within the council 
worked for months, gathering facts 
and pro and con opinions. The honor 
system they proposed was to apply only 
to women students. It was to be a 
strictly academic honor system with the 
reservation that it might be extended to 
social activities if it proved successful 
in the classroom. 

The proposed honor system plan ran 
through the grinder of student opinion 
and finally reached the Council on the 
Education of Women. The honor sys¬ 
tem is now at an indefinite stage in its 
progress. It cannot be definitely ascer¬ 
tained just how strong student support 
will be. Whatever the outcome may 
be, the facts show that honor systems 
are an outstanding advancement in the 
education of citizens. 

Looking Back 
At Our Fronts 

Christmas 1944 

Buffa Garrett 




The Purchasing Power of 
Duke University Students 
Is $1,500,000. 

March 1945 

It Pays To Advertise. 

Loring Fountain 

THE ARCHIVE, October, 1946 f 


Pepsi-Cola Company, Long Island Cily, N. Y. 

Franchised Bottler: Durham Pepsi-Cola Bottling Co. 



Dream Qirl 

Beauty Shop 

208 N. Corcoran St. 

Hats Off... 


In past years we have been proud to serve the Duke 
Students. In doing so we feel we have had a small part 
in aiding you to realize your high hopes for the future. 

It is our desire to continue to serve you now and in 
the years to come. 


Pattern Of The Moth 

(Continued from Page 13) 

Jack Delaney’s Bar so quiet and dark 
early in the morning. Two people 
came up out of the subway station and 
as the sound of the departing train roll¬ 
ed off in the tunnel, she waited and 
listened. 1 hen she walked rapidlv across 
Seventh Avenue and through deserted 
Sheridan Square. Her apartment had 
never seemed so far from the subwav 
stop before. 

burning off Sheridan Square she 
stopped and listened, hut could onlv hear 
the pounding of her heart. She tried to 
fight off her fear, but the futility of 
fighting was greater than the futility 
of her fears. Almost running, she fi¬ 
nally reached her apartment house. All 
that was left to endure was the four 
flights of stairs—and then her room 
and its door and its telephone. 

As she raced through the front door 
into the hall, she got a glimpse of her¬ 
self in the mirror hv the stairs. Her 
face was white with horror and there 
were tears of fear running down her 

The stairs were endless and she fi¬ 
nally had to pause and rest on the last 
landing. d'he sound of her rapid 
breathing was not loud enough, how¬ 
ever, for her to miss the noise of the 
front door ilownstairs opening. 

She couldn’t see through the tbrk- 
ness of the halls to the doors below, 
but she gasped in terror and ran on to 
the door of her apartment. .Vs she 
opened her pockethook and searched 
wildlv through it, there was the distinct 
and hollow noise of a sneeze coming 
from a floor beneatli. 

W ith a ilesperatc sob she fell to her 
knees on the floor in front of her 
door. She had lost her ke\. 

THE ARCHIVE, October, 1946 


"Ice Cream Specialists” 



I'lu' worm bored. 

I'he worm bored in earnest 
riie worm bored in dead earnest. 
I’oor Earnest. 

—Tlie Log. 

Bum: Have you a nickle for a cup 
of coffee.? 

Vet: No, but I’ll get by somehow! 

Fancy Ices 

For Parties on all 

Phone L-963 

“Is this a poplar tree?” 

“No, they seem to prefer the lamp- 
post on the corner.” 

Then there was the janitor who 
worked in the girls’ dorm and was en¬ 
trusted with a pass key to every room 
in the building. 

The following week the Dean ran 
across him and asked, “Why didn’t you 
come around Friday for your pay, 
Oscar? ” 

“Vot! Do I get wages too.?” 


For Many Years . . . 

We have had the pleasure and privilege of serving 
the University and its student body ... an asso¬ 
ciation we cherish more and more with each passing 




Strike^ ! 

A fortune teller gazed into hi< 
crystal ball and told his young lad\ 
customer that something amusing was 
about to happen to her. Then he broke 
into hilarious laughter. The young 
lady arose immediately and hit him in 
the teeth. “Why did you do that.?” he 
asked dazedly. “My mother,” she an¬ 
swered firmly, “alwaj's told me to 
strike a happy medium.” 


K OfNUtNl oFOiStiiita 1 



LADY DIANA 225.00 
Also $350 and 500 

Weldon’s Jewelers 

303 E.. Chapel Hill St. 

Across From Washington Duke Hotel 

THE ARCHIVE, October, 1946 


ton pnng coat in 

Hverytliing aliout V^'intra 
is tlie very tops 
... its New Era 
lliat looUs liUc heaver 

feels liUe nutria 
. . . its super tailoring 
. . . its superior lining 

of fine Narco Rayon. 

See your furrier now 
ahout yoitr ^'intra coat. 

540 West 58th Street, New York 

*Distinguishes product of Motty Eilingon, Inc. 
Trademark Reg. U. S. Pat. Off. 






& Nti Tos 

knows him... 

Early or late, he’s a familiar 
figure to every policeman 
on the street—he’s the Doctor 
—he’s on an emergency call! 

• A Doctor’s life isn’t his own 
to live as he chooses. There 
are interrupted holidays and 
vacations and nights of 
broken sleep. Emergencies re¬ 
quire his presence for long, 
exacting hours ... with some¬ 
where a pause and perhaps 
the pleasure of a cigarette. 
Then back to his job of serv¬ 
ing the lives of others. 

izti More Doctors smoke Camels 

JVationm'c/e than ANY OTHER CIGARETTE 

The "T-Zone"—T for Taste and T for Throat 

The “T-Zone” is 5-our own 
proving ground for any 
cigaretic. hor only yoi.r 
ta-rc and year throat can 
decide which cigarette 
tastes best to yo«...and 
how it affects your throat. 
On the ba^is of theexperi- 
. ru e of many mil¬ 
lion, of -Vi.okers, 
believe Cam eh 
V ill suit your “T- 
IZ'.ne” to a “T.” 

It. J.It- !■; T'.n ‘ “I Co,. Winston-.Salerii, North Carolina 

T he makers of Camels are naturally proud of the 
fact that, out of 113,597 doctors who were asked 
recently to name the cigarette they preferred to 
smoke, more doctors named Camel than any other 
brand. This survey was nationwide, covered doctors 
in every branch of medicine—nose and throat spe¬ 
cialists too. Three nationally known independent re¬ 
search agencies made and vouch for the findings. 

Try Camels. See how your taste responds to 
Camel’s full flavor. See how your throat likes Camel’s 
,cool mildness. That’s the “T-Zone” test (see left). 

Camels Tobaccos 




A Portrait 




A Studio of High Art and Dependability 

Sittings for Chirstiiias Delivery Uiiitl December 12 
Special Student Rates 

1004V2 W. Main Street N-9172 


For Many Years . . . 

We have had the pleasure and privilege of serving 
the University and its student body ... an asso¬ 
ciation we cherish more and more with each passing 



THE ARCHIVE, November, 1946 



THE ARCHIVE, November, 1946 

!7his ..^onth 

People have been asking- for weeks about 
the “What I Don’t Like” series. Although 
we tried to save it for a surprise, the story 
filtered through to the public. The idea was 
originated by Fred Jacobson, editor of the 
Carolina Magazine. He proposed that we 
submit an article by a Duke student to be 
concerned with “What I Don’t Like About 
Carolina.” Jacobson and his staff were to 
reciprocate with a similar article from the 
Carolina point of view. We agreed that it 
would make an interesting feature, and now 
these two articles are appearing simultane¬ 
ously in the Carolina Mag and The Archive. 
The Mag accepted Tookie Hodgson’s article 
!from among a group of contesting pieces; 
we selected Markham as being the one most 
qualified to speak on The Hill from this side 
of it. The two much-publicized articles are 
on pages 16 and I 7. 

Several weeks ago Joe Di Mona handed us 
a short sketch called, simply, “Nagasaki.” 
We think it is one of the most dramatic w'ar- 
time bits that we have seen, and for that 
reason could hardly justify keeping it for 
our editorial eyes alone. Larry Coe, a new¬ 
comer, executed the illustration. Nothing we 
could say about it could add to its virtue; 
read it for yourself on page 1 1. 

Bob Allen has long been known on campus 
as a lover of classical jazz. In this age of the 
Juke Box, there should be many readers who 
will applaud his all-inclusive article entitled 
“Jazz: From The Duke to the Duke Ambassa¬ 
dors” on page 12. Norman Anderson did the 
montage photograph of Fletcher which ac¬ 
companies the article. The musical sheet pic¬ 
tured is from an arrangement by the late 
Vince Courtney, to whom .-Mien’s article is 
fittingly dedicated. 

The fiction department this month offers 
two stories bv contributors from both East 
and West campuses. Bob Loomis, who re¬ 
ceives our nomination for coitiing fame in 
the Duke literary world, wrote the story 
“Nothing Else to Do” on page 8. It is 
capably illustrated bv Pat Wimberley, who is 
already recognized in the art field. “They 
Seek A Wedding” on page 14 was written 
by coed-senior Jill Fothergill and illustrated 
by Kitty Morrison. 

.■\rt Editor Frank Trech.sel returns this 
month with a colored co\er designed to bring 
nostalgia to duck hunters. 

^^itorial Staff 

Virginia Anne Gunn, Editor 
Da-vid W. Fick, Associate Editor 
Peggy Throne, Assistant Editor 
Frank Trechsel, Art Editor 
Betsy John Hurley, Exchange Editor 


Bill Styron 
Joe Di Mona 
Joan Angevine 
Cynthia Barrell 
Charlotte Mill 
Bob Loomis 
Ned Martin 
Pete Wile 
Pat Wimberley 
Clarence Brown 

Bob Allen 
Larry Coe 
Kitty Morrison 
Marion Fox 
Gordon Nazor 
Leslie Moseley 
Nancy Kester 
Bill Snitger 
Sally Bow.mall 
Jack Matlock 

EBusiness Staff 

Clieeord F,. Blackwell, Business Manager 
F'ran Hudson, Assistant Business Manager 
Dee Gentner, Coed Business Manage/ 
Bill Bryan, Circulation Manager 


Betty Bayliss 
Gloria Koltinsky 
Sara Huckle 
Shirley Dick 
Margaret Frans 
Carl Burgert 
Sis Watson 
Genevieve Parks 

Eleanor Brinn 
.Mary .Ann Duncan 
Lou Bello 
Slim Baird 
Jane Matihaus 
Nancy Rousseau 
Jane Scarborough 
Sandy Jones 

121 - 

We received a letter recently which inspired 
some thought on our part. The letter was 
from a former undergraduate writer here at 
Duke. He had thought for a long time that 
The Archive had failed in its duty as a liter¬ 
ary magazine. .After he assumed the status of 
a graduate student elsewhere, his attituile to¬ 
ward the college magazine softened. He says, 
“It is its duty to fail, as the organ which ex¬ 
presses the attempts of a group of writers 
generally too young to succeed.” We admit 
that we never thought about it in exactly that 
way. Maybe it is not too inappropriate that 
this comment should appear above the follow¬ 
ing insertion. 


The .-Vrchive wishes to extend its 
sincere apologies to Senor V. K. Estrada 
for the unintentional use of his name 
in a ficticious storv printed in the .\pril, 
1946, issue and entitled “.Altitude.” 
Fhe eiiitors were unaware at the time 
of publication that Senor Estrada was 
an actual person. We regret our error. 

The Editor. 

THE ARCHIVE, November, 1946 

Duke University Stores 

j Owned and operated for your convenience 
i by Duke University 

Duke University Store 


Duke Hospital Store 
ij Woman’s College Store 

!j The Haberdashery 



i| Manager 






Blue White Diamonds 

At No Extra Cost 


211 W. Main Street 

^res/i bruits 

and ^e^etahtes 



330 WEST MAIN ST. L-979 

We Have 



Hockfield Hosiery 

lOSVa Orange Street 


THE ARCHIVE, November, 1946 


Vol. Sixty November, 1946 No. 3 

In This Issuer 

This AIonih pa<re 3 

Concerning pasic 3 

Archie Speaks . pa<ie 7 

Noi'hing Else 'I'o Do . pane 8 

By Bob Loomis 

Nagasaki . , , . . page 1 1 

By Joe I)i Mona 

Jazz: P’rom the Duke to the Duke Ambassadors .page 12 

By Bob Allen 

They Seek A Weudinc; . page 14 

By Jill Pother gill 

Personality of the Month . page 15 

What I Don’t Like Abou t Duke .page 16 

By U. A . C.’s J'ookie Hodgson 

What I Don’t Like Abou't U. N. C. page 1 7 

By Duke’s Charlie Markham 

A Monthly MagaPine Published by the Students of Duke University 
I^urham, A orth Carolina 

The publication of articles on controversial topics does not necessarily mean that rhe Editor or the Uni¬ 
versity endorses them. The names and descriptions of all characters in the fiction of this magazine are 
fictitious. Any resemblance to any person or persons is not intended and is purely coincidental. 

Notice of entry: 'Acceptance for mailing at special rate of postage provided for in Section 1103. Act of 
October 3, 1917. Authorized December 4, 1924. ” Entered as second-class mail matter at the 
Post Office at Durham. N. C. 


C<)p\ Tight, November, 1946, b\ Clitfonl P.. Hlnckwell 

THE ARCHIVE, November, 1946 



As featured 
editorially in 
September Modern 

Exclusive in Durham at^ 


THE ARCHIVE, November, 1946 

Archie Speaks 

Our favorite correspondent, Charles 
“Chuck” Valentine, came up with this 
unusual description of his blind date 
the other night. 

Said he: “She looks like she blocked 
a punt.” s|c 

Archie has some amazing professors 
this year. Some of them are very good, 
but one Economics professor in par¬ 
ticular is so incoherent, so confusing in 
his lectures as to leave the entire class 
)in a verbal daze at the conclusion of the 

Mr. Blank is a sincere fellow. He 
means well and he tries hard. But how 
can anyone make sense out of a sen¬ 
tence like this: 

“Next Friday I will talk about a 
.few things—and any other things that 
come to my mind.” 

* * * * 

Another professor of ours revealed 
a hidden phobia the other day. 

He was midway through a dull, 
droning lecture, going strong, when he 
suddenly stopped, peered hard through 
his glasses, and blanched. 

“O my God,” said he, “a turtle.” 

Startled, we all wheeled around to 
'see this phenomenon, but there was no 
:urtle in the room—there was no turtle 
my place. Maybe it had left already. 

1 Or maybe— 

! J|: ;|s ;j! :|: 

Romance is heavy in our office these 

f It must be great to be an associate 
!'ditor—so you can associate with the 

Comes time for Archie to get serious 
for a while about a problem which 
needs immediate attention. 

We are speaking about the dance 
situation which is becoming more and 
more absurd. 

With Duke as crowded as it is to¬ 
day, there just isn’t room enough in 
the Coed gym to accommodate all the 
people who would like to attend the 

This year it has become so difficult 
to obtain tickets that most students have 
given the whole thing up as a useless 

The obvious solution—and one which 
has been tried before — is the West 
campus gymnasium. 

But students who attended the Shep 
Fields dance in that gymnasium last 
year say that the gym is not suited for 
a dance because of acoustic conditions. 
Ten feet away from the stage, they 
say, the music was inaudible. 

But older students remember that 
Glenn Miller played a successful dance 

And Samm)' Fletcher who, inci¬ 
dentally, is a strong proponent of the 
West campus gym for dances, played 
there for the Naval Ball of a few 
years ago. 

Shep Fields hatl no brass section. 
And that—they tell me — makes all the 

difference in the world. 

So Archie hereby proposes to the 
University Social Committee, on be¬ 
half of the thousands of Duke stu¬ 
dents who would like to attend at least 
one dance before they leave, that future 
dances be located in the West campus 
gym, which can more than accommo¬ 
date all students who wish to go. 

* * * % 

Politics came and went this month, 
but not without an unusual sidelight 
which will long be remembered by 
those who participated. 

It seems both slates were drawn up 
and ready for submission to the general 
public when—whammo—the .Admin¬ 
istration stepped in with the ruling— 
all candidates must have a C-avera<re 
for the previous semester, and must 
have a cpialitying number of hours to 
run for tiieir class office. 

Out went the Universitv Partv’s 

SG.A presidential candidate, plus their 
Senior class president, and various 

smaller fr\. Out went the Union 

Party’s Senior class president, secretary 

of the SG.A, and others down the line. 

So the politicos turned to, and with¬ 
in a few davs soon drafted up new 
slates with the holes filled in and— 
whammo—you guessed it, the .Atlmin- 
istration pulled some more out of the 

It got so bad that Charlev .Markham 
was seen walking down the campus, 
asking passerbts one bv one if they had 
a C-average, jilease, did thev have a 

THE ARCHIVE, November, 1946 

Her last letter read, Pll get in touch 
iLith \'‘U the day you get home. May¬ 
be PH fho}ie, or I might accidentally 
ZLulk by yiur house. Anyway, I will be 
seeing you. 

Now he was home, and the telephone 
was rintring. His insides felt like cold 
whipped cream as he lifted the re¬ 


.\ soft and restrained voice echoed 
hi own. 

“Hello, vou.” 

'Phe lery fretty girl whom he had 
been watching walked over to his booth 
and aid. Hello, you. Remember me^ 
Pfii Pat Moore. If Pm not mistaken, 
we met once through a mutual friend. 

Hello^ you. Remember 
me? Vm Pot Moore. If Pm 
not mistaken., tve met once 
through a miituol friend. 

Your name is Charlie Wilkinson, isn’t 
it? . . . Well, if it isn’t, Pll change it. 
Please sit down, won’t you? 

It could be no one else. 

“Hello, Pat.” 

“I was hoping you’d be home.” 

“I wouldn’t go anywhere today. 
Where are you now.?” he asked. 

“At a drug store.” 

“Which one?” 

There was a pause. 

“I don’t think you’d better come 

“Well, where then? I’d like to see 
you if I may.” 

Another pause. 

“Listen, at one o’clock tomorrow. 
I’ll be in front of the post office. Will 
that be all right? ” 

“Sure. Anything you say.” 

“Look, I’d better not talk any longer. 
This place is kind of public.” 

“O. K. You’ll be there at one 
then ? ” 

“Yes. . . . ’By for now.” 

“Good-by, Pat.” 

When he looked at the whole busi¬ 
ness rationally or as an outsider, he 
found it difficult to believe that he 
should be affected as he was. But no 
matter how hard he tried to say, “This 
isn’t right,” or, “It’s stupid to get all 
worked up over a thing like this,” the 
overpowering emotional excitement of 
the situation prevailed; and he was 
caught in the all-enfolding web of 
secretive romance. 

It was a quarter to one when he ar¬ 

rived down town, and he decided ii ■] 
wait in his car. There was no use ge ‘ ^ 
ting there early. The skin under h' 
chin felt very tight, and he was swa 
lowing hard even though his thro: 
was dry. What would they say? Wh: 
could they possibly talk about? 

/ love you for lots of reasons, but 
very important one is that we can a. 
ways talk to each other. And I don 
mean just silly banter, either. 

But this was different. Now it woul 
have to be silly banter. Maybe sh 
would have something to say. No. Sh 
was far more tied than he. 

It was five minutes to one. 

He got out of the car and starte 
walking towards the center of towr 
As he neared the post office, he glance 
anxiously at its windows to see if sh 
might be looking out, watching fo 
him. Although he didn’t see her, th 
fact that she might be watching hir 
made his walking awkward. He rub 
bed the side of his nose with his fore 
finger like a school boy and tapped h; 
thigh nervously with a letter that h 
was carrying. 

As he turned to go up the steps, h 
saw her standing in back of the gla? 
doors. He smiled, and she smiled bad 
God, she was beautiful! 

No, she was more than beautiful 
she was edible. He wanted to bite hei 
There was a black satin choker arouni 
her neck. She was too dressed up. H 
could see that. 

“Hello, Pat. Golly, you’re lookin. 

“Hello, you. And so are you. Char 

He p-lanced down at her left hant 


Then he suddenly remembered that h 

ElSt TO 00 


Bob Loomis 


THE ARCHIVE, November, 194 

ad a letter in liis hand, and he waved 
: in front of her. 

i “Just a minute while I mail this.” 
; She nodded. 

As he dropped the letter in the slot, 
e realized that he was trying to make 
ie letter give him some legitimate ex¬ 
use for being where he was. But it 
idn’t, and he felt embarrassed for hav- 
ig brought it along at all. 

Pat was not there when he returned 
) the door. If she had gone this far, 
/hy should she run away now? Then 
e saw her through the glass doors, 
he was standing outside on the steps 
liking to Judy Pearse. 

He pushed through the doors. 
“Hello, Pearse oP girl. Long time 

o see.” 


, “Why, Wilkinson!” Judy looked up 
^ surprise. “Gee, I haven’t seen you 
^ ever so long!” 

“.Almost five months,” he said, try- 
ig to appear nonchalant in what to 
jm was an awkward situation. 

“I was surprised too,” broke in Pat. 
I just ran into him in the post office 

“How long are you home for, Char- 
e?” asked Judy. 

' “Oh, about three months. 'Phis is 
jst summer vacation. I don’t have to 
.) back ’til September.” 

' “That’s swell,” said Judy, wrin- 
ling her nose. “Well, I’ve got to get 
ick to work. See you kids.” 

“Sure, I’ll be around.” 

Pat waved a parting gesture. 

As Judy turned away, there was a 
, 1 f-quizzical smile on her face. 

“"Phat was bad, Pat,” he said after 
idy had left. 

“Oh, what does she know?” 

I ’ 

i “Nothing, but she’s got eyes just like 
:;yhody else. Besides, she likes to talk.” 
j “Let her talk. I don’t care what 
ijople think.” 

I “That’s what you always say.” 

1 '— 

j Illiislraled hv Pat \\ i»iberlev 


“Never mind—where shall we go?” 

“I thought maybe we could walk 
down the street towards my car.” 

T hey walked on for some time, 
neither looking at each other nor speak¬ 
ing. He could feel her presence be¬ 
side him. It was as if he were a car¬ 
pet tack and she were a giant magnet. 
He could sense, too, the smoothness of 
her walk. Her movements were so 
graceful that they gave the impression 
that she was walking in slow motion. 

“Ahui’re looking fine, you,” said Pat, 
breaking the silence. “You look so 
brown. I’ve never seen you with a 

“'Phanks. You’re not so had look¬ 
ing yourself. Uh . . . how’s life—mar¬ 
ried life? ” 

“Are you kidding?” she replied and 
made a smirk. 

“I’m sorry to hear that. Really. I 
can remember when you wanted that 
more than anything.” 

He glanced about him, trying to find 
a new topic for conversation. 

“The oP town locTs just about the 
same, doesn’t it?” he said. 

“No, it isn’t the same.” He detected 
a pronounced note of bitterness in her 
voice. “Nothing has been the same.” 

“Here’s the car. D’you care to sit 

she was beautiful! She 
hadn ’t changed. 

here for a while? 'Phat is, if you don’t 
mind getting in the old thing.” 

r/iry were sitting in the show, tnul 
he could feel Pat's eyes looking at hint. 
She wasn't paying any attention to the 
picture. She reached over and rati her 
arni inside his coat, caressing his chest 
with the hack of her hand. Let's go — 
now, she said, to the car. . . . 

“I never minded before, did Ir” she 

He opened the door for her and then 
went around to the other side and got in 
beside her. 

She seemed very Inqipy. Her smile, 
perhaps the most noticeable thing about 
her, was as full ;ind radiant :is he could 
ever remember. 

lie rose fratn the table and put a 
nickel in the juke hux. It started play¬ 
ing ^'Saticy W'ith the Laughing Face," 
and he sa/ig the 'uemds to her, chatiging 
them slightly Patsy tc.'h the laughing 
face. . . . (III, I lore you, die whis¬ 

“fust like old times,” he said with 
an embarrassed laugh. 

’llE ARCHIVE, November, 1946 


“I wish it were. I wish it wore last 
w liter again.” 

"But it isn't.” 

lion't have to tell me.” 

Sht was looking at him now, look¬ 
ing hard with her big brown eves and 
tr\ Hu ti sa\ something through them. 

"’I'vUi know,” he said, “^’our e\es 
still remind me of a cooker spaniel’s.” 

She laughed. And as she laughed, 
she arched herself toward him and 
threw back her head. Her lips were 
\erv red, verv close, verv kissable. 

He drew back a little. 

“Look out now. I might forget m\- 

“I don’t think I’d care if you did.” 

He flushed and turned awav, em¬ 

They both sat and looked out the 
front windshield, neither, for the mo¬ 
ment, being able to think of anything 
more to sav. He felt that it w’as his 
place to speak next, but everything that 
he thought of seemed inappropriate. 

He reached down wu'th his hand and 
started to smooth the seat cover be¬ 
tween them. Pat followed his hand 
with her eves. Suddenly, she reached 
out and took his hand in hers. She 
didn’t take it, how'ever, w'ith a posses¬ 
sive gesture, rather it was more like 
the manner in which a window shop¬ 
per appraises a piece of merchandise. 

He saw' that her fingernails were 
bitten to the quick. The last time that 
he had seen them they had been so 
beautiful that they almost appeared to 
be artificial. He suddenly felt very 
sorr\' for her. 

d'hen she gave his hand an impul¬ 
sive, hard squeeze; and he could feel 
the cold metal of her wedding ring 
pressing against his fingers. 

“This is where I belong,” she said. 

“You should have thought of that 
some time ago,” he said, chiding her 
but still trying to be sympathetic. 

“Oh, why didn’t you stop me.^” 

“You were old enough to know 
w'hat you were doing—at least you 
should have been.” 

“W’ell, I guess I wasn’t.” 

She had released his hand, and he 
began pulling his ring off and putting 
it on again. 

“Pat . . . what about childrenr Are 
you going to have anv.'” 

she sat doiu}i beside him i>i 
the booth, the blue pinafore dress that 
she had on puffed up in front. D’you 
kmo'TL' why 1 like this dress? she asked. 
Ids be cause it makes me Look pregnant 
■u'hen I sit down. It’s e.vciting, don’t 
you think? 

“d hey wouldn’t help matters any,” 
she shrugged. “We seem to ai'gue all 
the time—not like us.” 

“Hey, look, Pat. Don’t compare us 
W'ith anything. Really, you’re living 
in the past. Sure, we were almost per¬ 
fect the short time we were together; 
but in a few more months, we prob¬ 
ably would have had a squabble too.” 

“I don’t think that we ever would 

“Well, perhaps not ... but things 
didn’t turn out that way.” 

She looked at her ring but didn’t say 

“I don’t know why I’m talking like 
this,” he said, shaking his head. “I 
guess I want you to feel as you do. It’s 
just that it can’t get anybody any¬ 

“We can try.” 

Her voice was colorless now, and 
her eyes looked, unfocused, through the 

“Like what do you mean?” he 

She thought for a minute, twisting 
her ring as she did so. 

“Well, what about this? I’ll be 
down town at Doc Lucas’ store every 
Tuesday night. At least that way we 
could see each other. Could you be 
there? ” 

“Of course,” he said reluctantly. 
“But seeing each other will only make 
things worse.” 

“Anything would be better than the 
way things are now. It seems like 
everything I do is in a dream.” 

“I suppose we can try it.” I 

“Look, honey—oh. I’m sorry! 
Please forgive me, Charlie.” 

“It’s all right.” 

“Anyway, I’ve got to go now. I’m 
supposed to be calling on people this ; 
afternoon. You will be down town ■ 
Tuesday, won’t you?” 

“Yes, I’ll be there.” 

She got out of the car and then 
leaned back through the open window. 

“I can’t tell you how good it is to 
see you again.” 'i 

“The same goes from me to you, 

“It’ll be hard acting cold towards 
you when we’re in public. Try to be 
at Doc’s at least by seven—before all 
the gang comes.” 

O O 


She pushed herself away from the 
window with her arms. 

“ ’By for now, you.” 

“Good-by, Pat.” 

He watched her as she walked away, 
her heels making a peculiar little 
rhythm that was so familiar to him. | 
As she turned the corner and disap¬ 
peared from his sight, he frowned. ' 
The seat beside him in the car 
seemed very empty. He looked around 
to discover if he could see anyone he ^ 
knew, anyone who could have seen | 

Now that she wasn’t near and her 
person wasn’t influencing him, the last 
half hour seemed vague and unreal; 
and the immediate gained perspective.! 

As he started the car and headed 
home, he began to think that perhaps 
he might go to a show Tuesday night. 


This graphic interpretation of atomic 
chaos was written by Joe Di Mona two j 
weeks after the bomb fell. It isn’t timely, | 

but we’re publishing it for two reasons:) 


we thought Di Mona’s reaction so excel-1 
lently written that you deserved the oppor¬ 
tunity to read it; and Larry Coe’s illus¬ 
tration is unquestionably one of the finest f 
pieces of art that we have seen eminate 
from tin's campus. 

THE ARCHIVE, November, 1946 

CiyClSCl. V . . . . NAGASAKI the bones 
bleaching in little lonely piles, and singularly the chimneys stand 
amidst the miles and miles of rubble. Bare-ribbed against the sky, 
the mighty Mitsubishi plant leans crazily from an unseen wind, as 
if the hand of God had pushed it just so far, and then had stopped. 
The people are still stunned; they pick amongst the rubble of ten 
thousand former homes to find but this, a broken Buddhist doll, 
cracked chinaware, fused metal over all, and underneath—the bones 
of those not found. In quiet little groups they stand, in mute me¬ 
morial to a tragedy so great that none can grasp, can comprehend 
what has become of everything they knew. I'his empty space was 
once a home, and over here the building where you worked ft)r 
twenty years. Where is it now? What could have happened to the 
great stone lobby, the elevators, the furniture, the desks and chairs, 
the telephones? Somewhere amidst a hundred yards of scrap, a hun- 

you watch you’ll see a jeep speed swiftly in a cloud of dust, perhaps 
a GI truck will roar right through—but none will stop, "^'et if you 
walk that road yourself, beside the plodding Japanese who once 
called this their home and watch their faces as they pick amongst 
the rotting rubble of their former way of living, t'ou’ll get perhaps 
a glimpse of destiny so fearful that you cannot close your eyes, of 
tragedy so real and threatening as to make all Time stand still upon 
this corner of the world and make the common man who comes at 
length upon this place look Heavenwani. 

dred tons of rubble, you’ll find a token, a telephone that did not 

melt, a chair-leg not quite atomized, perhaps a skull, some bones, a 

body not yet cremated. 

rli i 1 


'I'here is a road which winds among the bleaching ruins, and if 



■ '-.i-.i*. '•» iTTr *. - V. 

I-,-*- K * id **11 miK-m. t^l f 


witli tlu' Mdilcl-’r I'onl after the first 
World War. 

To deriiie the word jazz is a mean 
proposition. It is easier to tell what 
jazz is not than to tell what it is. Jazz 
is not necessarih' the product of five or 
six men all blowing their lungs out at 
once on some hot number. Jazz can be 
sweet as well as hot and does not have 
to be plavetl hv a small group but can 
he plaveil h\ a large band as well. More 
often than not, jazz is unwritten and 
unrehearsed, but this is not a ret]uire- 
ment. One requisite is that the music 
sound imaginative and spontaneous. To 
put it in colorful language, it must 
sound as if it is coming from the soul 
of the originator . . . not as if he is 
placing “My Old Kentucky Home” 

so, are not appreciated. He is the oritji- 
nator of “Be-Bop” music, which is in¬ 
definable, indescribable, and “out of 
this world.” Hear him and you’ll hear 
real jazz. 

A newcomer to the small jazz field 
is Joe Mooney’s quartet. Many Duke- | 
sters heard them in New York the Army 
weekend and were highly impressed, as 
were all the music critics. Mooney is 
an old hand in the music world, havina 
played piano and arranged for many 
bands. Mooney, who is blind, has given ■ 
up the piano and is now working ac- B 
cordion and vocals for his new outfit. 1 
The group sounds a great deal like the 
King Cole Trio, which is no shame. 

It has, how'ever, different instrumenta -1 
tion, using the accordion, bass fiddle, 

From The Duke To The Duke Ambassadors 

TTT'HBN I'HE word is men- 

’ tioned, immediately the writer of 
the word lea\es himself open to numer¬ 
ous boiis, insults, and arguments. No 
tuii people in the world agree exactly 
-iin the connotation of the word jnx'z. 
However, most critics and musicians do 
a^ree on the fact that jazz is not music 
played in the style of Sammy Kaye, 
Frankie Carle, or \kaughn Monroe, but 
is e.xhibited in the music of Duke El¬ 
lington, \\h)ody Herman, the King Cole 
Fritj, Dizzy Gillespie and others. 

First off, let me say that Dixieland 
jazz is not the only true jazz in music. 
In fact, many people think that Dixie¬ 
land is on the way out, as has been 
noted in the recent tiff between Eddie 
Condon, a highly regarded exponent of 
Dixieland, and ace-drummerman Davie 
1 ou:rh. d ough, playing in Condon’s 
jazz joint on 52nd Street, said that as 
oon as Condon had left town, the band 
dropped that “Dixieland corn” and 
started playing modern stuff, d'ough 
went on to say that Dixieland is living 
in the past and shfuild have gone out 


from a community sing book. Since it 
is next to impossible to give a clear-cut 
definition of jazz, my best approach is 
to give some of the outstanding bands 
who play this type of music. 

There are two types of jazz outfits: 
the small “combo” and the large band. 
The King Cole Trio is probably one of 
the most popular small combos in the 
business today. They tend to the sweet 
side of jazz and do an expert job of 
selling sweet jazz to the public. Benny 
Goodman’s Sextet is another great out¬ 
fit which is widely known. This jive 
group has put out two albums which arc 
“musts” in anybody’s record collection. 
Goodman was one of the first musicians 
to break away from the Dixieland style 
in favor of what is today known as 
“Swing.” One of the most frantic 
jazz groups in the country today is that 
of mad-trumpet-man Dizzy Gillespie. 
Dizzy is famous along The Street in 
New 'V'ork but is not widely known 
elsewhere, principally because his music 
and ideas are so wild that they aren’t 
understood by the average person . . . 

guitar, and clarinet. The band is so 
impressive that even the “unimpressi- 
ble” New Yorkers shushed you if you 
dared to speak during one of their 
numbers. That’s something. 

When I move into the field of big 
band jazz, the first name that comes to 
mind is that of “The Duke” . . . Duke 
Ellington to the uninitiated. The Duke 
is probably the greatest and most fa¬ 
mous man in the world of music today, 
and the same adjectives apply to his 
band. Ellington has received every 
honor possible for a musician. He has 
received awards from Downbeat^ Mei- 
ronome^ and Esquire in about every 
one of their musical polls. The Duke 
has toured the continent several times, 
playing before the King and Queen of 
England and many other important 
European personages. He has played 
(Continued on Page 22) 

‘‘The Tapper” 
saiiimy fleteher 

THE ARCHIVE, November, 1946 

XTKl^ IKNNINGS, who is a nice 

~ cie.iii-ciit American hoy, living in 
Hosti n. Sometimes womlers it it really 
i.unvneil this wax. But he looks at his 
wife sittinsi on the other siile of the 
hearthruu. and thxxugh she no longer 
sweeps exerx thing under the carpet, he cured her of the habit of bringing 
strax cab drivers home for a drink. 
Sometimes watching her being x’ery 
uirlish and xvide-eved at a party, he will 
■eix to himself, “If they only knew 
what I know, my girl.” 

But of course they never will, Bos¬ 
ton being what it is, and Ned being 
what he is—a husband that likes to hold 
something oxer his wife’s head for fu¬ 
ture reference. 

Two years ago Ned Jennings was 
in the armv stationed in one of the 
South .American republics on a good- 
xvill mission. He had nothing much to 
do besides slapping the back of any na¬ 
tive within reach, and so he had lots 
of time left ox'er for partying, which is 
his faxorite indoor sport. It was at 
one of these parties that he met Mona 
.Attenhury. He was very, very sorry for 
Mona .Attenbury because she had three 
separate sets of parents. He thought of 
her as “a victim of the broken home” 
and was prepared to be very kind and 
eentle with her. Altogether noble, in 
fact. So he was rather peeved when 
she blithely informed him that variety 
is the spice of life, and that it was con¬ 
venient to have one set of parents in 
New York, one set in South America, 
and one in Virginia for the hunting. 
“It helps you to get around,” she said. 

d'here and then Ned decided that 
what he was going to do with Mona 
■Attenbury was reform her. He follow¬ 
ed her around from party to party re¬ 
forming her, but without any visible 
result. It was at one of these parties 
that .Mona introduced him to several 
large bottles containing nint\'-ninc and 

a half per cent alcohol and labeled 
Pisco. To this day he does not know 
xvhat composed the other half per cent, 
but he has a theorv that the ommission 
was merely modesty on the part of the 
importers. Be that as it may, Ned and 
Mona drank it. They drank quite a 
lot of it. In fact, when they came 
out of the house Ned had to grab a 
passing lampost for support. He look¬ 
ed at Mona with distaste. “I would 
not,” he said carefully, “rub down a 
horse with what we have just drunken.” 

“Drunk,” said Mona. 

“Drunken,” said Ned. “Drunk, 
more drunk, drunkenest. Drunkenest- 
that’s me. On what?” 



“On Pisco.” 

“It has,” said Ned, “a sinister way 
of creeping up on you.” 

“Creeping?” said Mona. “It seems 
to have hit you over the head.” 

Ned closed his eyes. He shuddered. 
He opened them again and levelled an 
accusing forefinger at her. “The trou¬ 
ble with you is that you’re sober,” he 
said. “It is not ladylike for a lady to 
be sober on what you have just drunken. 
It is not ladylike and it is not friendly.” 
He closed his eyes signifying his re¬ 
tirement from the discussion, but Mona 
was unmoved. 

“I know,” she said brightly, “let’s 
go to Major Hunt’s. He’s celebrating 

“You are not dragging me to see any 
more of your sordid friends,” said Ned 
without opening his eyes. “What we 
have just celebrated on I would rather 
not celebrate on again.” 

“Oh, you and your wonderful head,” 
said Mona scornfully. “Come on. I’ll 

“Nothing doing. I am not bailing 
you out of jail again. A captain’s pay 
won’t run to it.” 

“Alright, you drive then,” said 
Mona pushing him into the car. “But 
if you’re going to be throwing that up 
to me the rest of my life.” 

“I am not going to be around the 
rest of your life,” said Ned. “No sir. 
I’m certainly not. What a man needs 
is a soothing influence. YOU,” he 
said sternly, “are definitely not sooth¬ 

“Why don’t you buy yourself a 
cow?” asked Mona. “They’re soothing, 
chewing the cud all the time. Mind 
that lampost.” 

“I have no room in my apartment 
for a cow,” said Ned with dignity. “Be¬ 
sides, I don’t like milk. That was not 
a lampost, it was a tree, and I saw it.” 

“Turn left here,” said Mona. “Left, 
Ned. That was the British Embassy 
you just hit. We’re allies, remember?” 

“Ought we to go back do you 
think?” asked Ned as the crash of glass 
announced the destruction of the em¬ 
bassy windows. 

“I don’t think,” said Mona. 

“I don’t think either,” said Ned. 
“Stop grabbing the wheel like that. 
What’s Hunt celebrating?” 

“It could be almost anything,” said 
Mona thoughtfully. “YOU can stop 
here. Looks like quite a party.” 

Major Hunt’s house is wide and low 
and open. The bar stretches its smooth 
metallic length across one wall of the 
(Continued on Page 20) 

Personality of the Month 


a red-haired beaury whose smile could make a Tooth¬ 
paste model envious, is a senior from Webster Groves, 
Missouri. Laura, a sociology major, was a model in 
her own right in New York last summer. She was 
listed by one of the top modeling agencies as The 
Outdoor Type. A member of Kappa Alpha Theta, she 
serves this year as the efficient chairman of Social 
Standards. For those who doubt that brains and 
beauty may come in a single package, let us say that 
Laura has listing in the collegiate Who’s Who, mem¬ 
bership in Phi Kappa Delta and Phi Beta Kappa to 
her credit. 

THE ARCHIVE, November, 1946 


"D \ rsiMi hii.hl\ sensible nt 

“e--vl- ii'lii>nneur,” I was e\- 
: . , !- . et.iiu ti \eiu ni\ wrath 

r^uis. l'ni\^rsit\ without tirst 
niaiie a thiu'ougli inxestigation 
, t th.. var' -us detects ot that institu- 
f-'U. I 'Kietoie, without further adi', 
I m;;d- nlans ti' undertake the some- 
\v hat laborr.ius jinirnev to the “City of 
Industry and Kducation" to gather ma- 
ti ri..’ for m\ forthcoming malediction. 
In sh.nt, I was oft in what the U. S. 
,'^enati would call a “fact-finding tour.” 

.Arriving at the entrance of Duke, I 
dismounted from m\’ bus and 
:irep.ared to penetrate the piney woods 
which conceal the various noble edi- 
tices of Dukedom from the vulgar 
\es -- f tourists. 

.After a sluirt while, I strode into a 
clearing, and there, before mv verv 
eves, rose the Gothic Spires of Duke. 
Green, tailored lawns provided a per- 


hv Tookie Hodgson 

feet setting for the various turrets, 
flying buttresses, cupolas, and gargoyles 
which littered the place. How'ever, sev¬ 
eral signs strictly forbade me to walk 
on said lawms. “A very wise regula¬ 
tion,” I thought—“If you let them 
walk on the grass, the next thing you 
know, they’ll be in the bushes.” 

Therefore, w'ith respect to the noble 
college’s delicate sensibilities, I care¬ 
fully avoided the grass. 

The next thing which caught my at¬ 
tention was a group of workmen sand¬ 
blasting the various buildings on the 
campus. Upon inquiring as to the cause 
of th is interesting operation, I was in¬ 
formed that the buildings were being 

“V’es sir!” Spoke one of the work¬ 
men. “Them Dook fellers in there 
told us to age this place at least a thou- 


sand years b\ next l uesdat’, and w’e’re 
doin’ our damndest to do tliat very 
thing. After we get through what w'e’re 
doin’ now’, we’re gonna glue ivy all 
over the jernt. 'Fhen, we’re gonna 
carve up old man Duke’s statoo until 
the old boy looks like some feller named 
King Richard, the Lion-Hearted. Yes, 
sir, w’hat it took Oxford to do in eight 
hundred years, we’re gonna do in 
three days!” 

YV/r Heel Tookie Hodgson, tvhose 
brand of humor has been tickling Caro¬ 
lina junnybones in the Daily Tar Heel, 
is trying his stuff on Dukesters as the 
winner of the hat I Don't Tike 
About Duke" contest at the Hill. Nat¬ 
urally, 'The Archive does not endorse 
his opinions, which, we trust, are repre¬ 
sentative of Carolina thinking. 

“\A^ell,” I answered, “tliere’s noth¬ 
ing like authenticity!” 

“No, sir! There sure ain’t,” replied 
the workman, firing medieval cannon 
balls into the Chapel Tower for that 
final touch of historical charm and ex¬ 

Proceeding with my sight-seeing 
tour, I arrived at the Administration 
Building. Inside, I found the univer¬ 
sity officials, gathered in close confer¬ 

“Gentlemen,” announced Asbury 
MacDoodle, the Chancellor, “in spite 
of everything we’ve done, some of the 
boys here are still able to date the coeds. 
You know what that means! Why, in 
no time, some foolish girl will actually , 
let a boy hold her hand!” 

“No! No!” thundered the shocked 

“It looks that 
ijil~ —that way,” replied 
MacDoodle, in an 
\ awe-inspiring tone. 

\ \ “Anyway, we’ll 

\ I have to take some 

I I strenuous measures 

to correct this de¬ 
plorable situation. 
I’m in favor of the 
chaperon system. 
Under that, the boys can visit the coeds 
between 7:00 and 7:30 p.m., provided 
that there are iron bars between them, 
and that at least nine members of the 
faculty are present.” 

“Chancellor MacDoodle,” cried 
Brother Simonpure Jones, “I favor 
your system, but I still think it’s pretty 
risky. As you know, I’m very broad¬ 
minded, but thirty minutes for a date 
(Continued on Page IS) 

THE ARCHIVE, November, 1946 

/^ON'I'RAR^’ to the general suspi- 
^^cion, I did not enroll in the Univer¬ 
sity of North Carolina last fall for the 
purpose of stealing King Carl’s choice 
football formations for Wallace Wade, 
nor was my return to Duke this year 
prompted by similar motives in behalf 
of the Tar Heels. As a result of this 
lluctuation between Duke and the Hill, 
I have formed one definite ami perhaps 
unusual conclusion which this article 
gives me a welcomed opportunity to 

I do not refer alone to that jihase of 
the age-old rivalry which includes the 
painting of the respective campuses by 
the lowest order of dimwits from both 
universities. 'Ehat practice, which w'ell 
reflects the grammar-grade maturity of 
some of our students and t’ours, will 
probably cease this year after the un¬ 
fortunate episodes of 1945. What I 
wish to condemn is the state of mind 
from which such practices stem. .And, 
by way of analyzing that state of mind, 
I can best describe what I dislike—and 
dislike intensely—about the University 
of North Carolina. 

School spirit, I uiulerstand, is what 
.Carolina takes pride in above many of 
the other virtues with which I willingly 
admit it is blessed. I cannot help but 
condemn, however, a school spirit which 
is seemingly composed of two distinct 
phases: love Carolina and hate Duke, 
f our orientation handbooks don’t men¬ 
tion the latter, to be sure, but I dare say 
there is not a new student on the Hill 
who has not been fully impressed with 
the idea that to love Carolina is to hate 
its neighbor to the North . . . and not 
only to hate it, hut keep on hand a stock 
of sneering remarks about Duke and its 
jstudents. Perhaps we at Duke tlo not 
tgo into hysterics at our football games 

over the success of our team, as you do; 
but I can truthfully say that I never 
heard an insulting reference to the Uni¬ 
versity of North Carolina in my three 
years at Duke—except, of course, when 
jeers with Carolina students were jest¬ 
ingly e.xchanged. 

The t\'pe of remark which grew all 
too familiar to me during my year in 
Chapel Hill was directly in line with 
the “Don’t-give-a-damn- for- Duke- 
University” philosophv in which all 
Carolina freshmen apparently must be 
drilled . . . the monotonous line about 
the bunch of damnyankee foreigners in 
the student body at Duke, and that old 
chestnut about Duke subsidizing its foot¬ 
ball teams. I want to add in {lassing 
that Duke students come from 45 states 
in the Union, about half from North 
Carolina; so our student hotly is as rep¬ 
resentative as that of any university in 
the nation. And as for the foreign 
names on our student roster, I can onl}' 
say that I have known some outstanding 
o:entlemen of foreign descent at Duke, 
any one of whose friendship I would 
not trade for that of any half-a-dozen 
pure Anglo-Saxons I could pick at 

Carolina tlelights in its parody of the 
Duke fight song, which sarcasticallv 
refers to the football team’s being paitl 
“by tlear old Whillace W'ade.” .After 

the eminent .\Ir. Justice enrolled for a 
nominal consideration in the University 
(where, I understand, he has finally 
reported for football), I never want to 
hear another Carolina man accuse Duke 
of buying football talent. W’^e may as 
W'ell be honest with ourselves. Both 
Duke and Carolina—and 99 per cent 
of the other football powers in the 
country—make it financially profitable 
for their jilayers to participate. 'Ehere 
is not a man in either Duke or Caro¬ 
lina’s starting line-up who is beating 
his brains out si.x days a w'eek merely to 
hear the crowds roar on Saturday. 

A true school spirit, I believe, is one 
which evidences the highest type of 
sportsmanship. To put it tpiite frankly 
(and with no disrespect' to the true 
Carolina gentlemen whom I came to 

U. (1. c. 

by (Charlie Markham 

know well there last year) the Carolina 
student body, as a whole, exhibits the 
w'orst sportsmanship I have ever seen. 
4'his is particularly disgusting in basket¬ 
ball season. It seems to be the inescap¬ 
able dutv of the Carolina cheering sec¬ 
tion to boo—raucously ami at length— 
any close decision by the referee which 
favors the other team. It likewise fol¬ 
low's that when an opposing plavcr is 
attempting a foul shot, the Carolina 
section must distract his attention b\ an¬ 
other chorus of boos, whistles and cat¬ 
calls. If that is Carolina spirit, Erank 
Graham is a monkev’s uncle. 

.Amazingh enough, Duke men re¬ 
spect the Universitt of North Carolina. 
■As students, tliev ailmire its east-going 
manner and collegiate atmosiihere (as 
opposetl to the cold formalism of their 
own campus). Ehev enw you the free- 
ilom which is tour Carolina heritage. 

Ehere is nothing bitter in their feel¬ 
ing; natunillt, thev like to lick Caro- 
‘ ('.ontiuiied on 1‘iigt' I‘/!■ 

THE ARCHIVE, November, 1946 


<L^;/ Ideal 








Printing Co. 

124 W. Parrish 

—Don't Like About Duke— 

(Continued from Page 16) 

is delinitclv too long. I propose that we 
limit dates to fifteen minutes including 
a five minute opening prayer and a five 
minute closing pra^■er. In between, tlie 
girls and boys can read Bible tracts to 
each other.” 

“A splendid idea, Brother Jones,” 
answered IMacDoodle. “All in favor, 
sav ave!” 

“Aye!” echoed the august assem¬ 
blage, signifying their unanimous ap¬ 
proval of this broad-minded sugges- 

“Gentlemen,” quoth Mr. Mac- 
Doodle, “we have another very seri¬ 
ous situation to deal with at this time. 
Coach Wallace Wade reports that two 
of his most promising athletes are now 
on strike for higher pay. It seems that 
these deserving young football players 
can’t lead the life to which they are ac¬ 
customed on the paltry salaries which 
we are paying them, and I for one, am 
in favor of giving them a slight raise— 
say five or six thousand a year.” 

“Here! Here!” cried the pedagogues, 
voicing their favorable sentiments to¬ 
wards this worthy motion. 

“Of course,” began Brother Mac- 
Doodle, “we’ll have to sell a building 
or two to raise the cash, but it will 
doubtless be well worth it.” 

“Amen!” quoth the administrators. 

Interesting as this assemblage was, I 
decided not to linger longer, and ac¬ 
cordingly left my seat and strode into 
the great out-of-doors. 

It was at this time, that I thought 
it wise to collect my scattered data, and 
arrange it in a useful manner. I record 
below for your edification some of my 

Duke University consists of a large 
football stadium surrounded by athletic 
field houses. 

Duke is a Methodist institution. The 
Methodist Discipline frowns on the 
usage of tobacco. Duke University was 
built by James B. Duke, a multi-mil¬ 

lionaire tobacco tycoon. Everyone is 
glad that religious scruples didn’t inter¬ 
fere with the acceptance of Mr. Duke’s 

Duke is a Southern school. It is re¬ 
puted to have some Southern students, 
although I didn’t see any. There are 
plenty of nice people from New Jersey, 

Duke has freedom of the press. 
Anyone can print anything he likes in 
“77z^ Chronicle.” However, it is al- 
way's best if the administration likes it 

Lots of people at Duke say that our 
student government leaders “dawdle 
and argue” too much. They don’t dc 
that at Duke. They don’t have any¬ 
thing to “dawdle and argue” about. 

Duke students don’t drink. The uni¬ 
versity regulations forbid drinking. 

There are a lot of fraternities anc 
sororities at Duke. Each one has i 

The architecture of Duke is Gothi( 
on red clay, and Georgian with a cigar¬ 
ette factory motif. 

Duke’s regulations are very good 
You are relieved of doing any think 
ing. The university even plans you 
menus for you. 

The Duke coeds are very cute. Mos 
of the Duke men would like to dat 
one someday. 

Having thus compiled the above lisi 
I took myself homeward. Arriving a 
Chapel Hill, I had a glass of beei 
dropped in at a sorority house, had | 
nightcap at my fraternity house, an 
then returned to my room. 

Once inside my domicile, I bega 
work on my “Why I Don’t Like Duke 
thesis, but it was quite useless. I fe 
no hatred. In my heart was only 
heart-felt pity for the underprivilege 
unfortunates who, every night, take oi 
a copy of the ‘^North Carolina Record 
from beneath their pillows, and avidl, 
read until dawn. Dukesters, I open rr 
heart to you! 


THE ARCHIVE, November, 194 

-Don’t Like About U. N. C.— 

(Continued from Page 17) 

ina on the athletic field, but a victory 
)ver Tennessee or Army would be 
■qually as pleasing as one over Caro- 
ina. And a loss to Carolina occasions 
,ione of the bitter sadness which engulfs 
he Hill when the Blue Devils win. 

It is unfortunate that this “to hell 
vith Duke” complex persists among 
Carolina men long after they have left 
Ilhapel Hill. We have within a twelve- 
nile radius the two greatest centers of 
earning in a Southland which has long 
leeded a dynamic educational and eco- 
lomic revival. The potential here is 
remendous. It is shameful that these 
wo great universities cannot engage in 
co-operative program for the better- 
nent of the region primarily because of 
he barriers of animosity and disrespect 
vhich have risen over an annual foot¬ 
ball game . . . animosity which flares 
p throughout the state when a good- 
ized hunk of football talent named 
fovicsin moves from one school to the 
ther. That’s why I say the Duke- 
.larolina “rivalry” is a lot of nonsense. 


If the two universities together can 
ver realize the potentialities they possess 
or revitalizing the South, their success 
/ill be dependent upon public support 
nd approval of their undertaking, 
his brings to mind another phase of 
Carolina which I do not like ... a 
base perhaps more difficult to explain 
lan the “don’t give a damn for Duke” 

Carolina is as free as any university 
■ know . . . facultv and students both 
re entitled to the free and open ex- 
, ,ression of their opinion on political, 
)cial and economic matters. It is mv 
Jlilief that in many respects this free¬ 
dom has been, and is being, viciously 
J|Hised, to the detriment of the Univer- 

! ty, the state and the cause of a pro- 
iressing South. 


J 1 here have gathered in Chapel Hill 

(jf late particularly as students, a con- 

^omeration of pseudo-sophisticates and 

ISIlHE ARCHIVE, November, 1946 

intellects whose immediate goal seems 
to be complete, all-encompassing social 
revolution. I like to call them bleeding 
heart liberals. On any question of pub¬ 
lic interest, they can be depended upon 
to take a position as far to the left as 
propriety will permit. Last year they 
usurped the columns of the Daily Tar 
Heel with their liberal twaddle. The 
organizations which they have infil¬ 
trated pass resolutions which are widely 
published throughout the state as repre¬ 
sentative of the student body of the 
University of North Carolina . . . reso¬ 
lutions such as that of the Dialectic 
Senate which advocated the admission 
of Negroes to the University. 

I do not wish to debate the virtues of 
their position. I believe it is one which 
is determined primarily because they are 
intellectually immature; more simply 
stated because they do not know any 
better. They are misjudging the mind 
of the South and doing great damage 
to the cause in which they believe so 
zealously. Their ideas are not inher¬ 
ently dangerous; there is a great body 
of opinion at the University and in the 
South which believes that the South can 
find its way, but that the path to prog¬ 
ress and better living for all cannot be 
trod overnight. That opinion will pre¬ 
vail in the long run. d'he danger in 
the presence of these advanced thinkers 
is that their irresponsibility will ir¬ 
reparably damage the good name of the 
University and weaken its potential in¬ 
fluence for the good. 

I have found, in my years at Duke 
and Carolina, that the institutions are 
not greatly diflrerent. There is good 
living and good thinking at both. I 
wish that every Duke man might spend 
a year at Carolina, and every Carolina 
man a year at Duke, and that the un¬ 
derstanding thus developed might give 
birth to a great joint endeavor. I hope 
it is not too idle a dream that Duke and 
Carolina men may someday outgrow 
this nonsensical animosity, and may to¬ 
gether help to build, in a sane and ma¬ 
ture manner, a new and abundant 

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rireplace ilecerated with the stuffed and 
sexered heads of deer wliich Major 
}hint buys at Antonio’s at reduced rates. 
He was standing in front of it empt)- 
ing glasses and crasliing them into the 

“Rather an expensix'e pastime, isji’t 
it, Major."” asked Ned. 

“Iffess the boy. Of course not,” said 
the Major sending a couple of cocktail 
glasses to join the others in the hearth. 
“All breakages are paid for by the Brit¬ 
ish Government. It goes in my enter¬ 
tainment allowance under Exfetidltures 
for the Enterta'mrneJit of Political 
Guests.” They looked around, but there 
were no political guests there but the 
■Minister of the Exchequer, and he had 
passed out under the table. It seemed 
that what Major Hunt was celebrating 
was Christmas. 

“In July.?” asked Mona. It seemed 
that he was celebrating not Christmas 
but the spirit of Christmas. 

“The spirit of Christmas should be 
celebrated every day,” said the Major 
waving his arms about wildly. “Un¬ 
fortunately neither my cellar nor my 
constitution could bear up under the 
strain. However, I am resolved to 
celebrate it at least once a week.” 

“Oh good,” said Mona. “Every Fri¬ 

“Every Wednesday,” said the Major. 
“That will give me an excellent ex¬ 
cuse for not going to the office on 
Thursday. What is the matter. Cap¬ 
tain Jennings?” 

“There is something I should be do¬ 
ing, and it is not this,” murmured Ned. 
“Now what is it.?” 

“Having another drink,” said the 
.Major, and he put one into his hand. 

“Well that also,” said Ned. “But this 
that I can’t remember has something 
to do with a wedding.” 

“.Maybe you’re getting married.” 

“No, I think I should remember 

that,” said Ned. “O w-ell, it’ll come i 

It came to him whth a bang. Tl' 
party grew rowdier and rowdier. Tl! 
.Major’s servants came in and remove^ 
the Minister of the Exchequer and set' 
cral others. The telephone rang wit 
the complaints of the neighbours ti ‘ 
the Major was forced to disconnect i 
“People who want to sleep at night. 
He scowled. “Haven’t they anythin 
better to do.? Oh my aunt, here’s O. I 
looking like a storm. Wonder what h 
wants.? ” 

“I am beginning to remember,” sai 
Ned scrambling hastily behind th 

It was Colonel Armstrong, familial 
ly known as O. H. for Oh Hell! 
reflex conditioned by his appearance o 
any scene. He had seen Ned and cam 
striding over, his moustache bristlin 
with indignation. Ned hauled himsel 
to his feet by way of the couch an 
stood there swaying in the breeze. 

“Captain Jenings,” said O. H., “yo 
are drunk.” , 

“Sir!” said Ned reproachfull)'. 

“Harsh words. Colonel,” said Hun 
shaking his head. 

“Drunk,” said O. H. defiantl) 
“Drunk as a lord.” 

“Actually as a class they’re not ver 
much addicted to alcohol, don’t yo 
know.?” said Hunt politely. 

“Major Hunt, I have not come her 
to discuss the drinking habits of th 
aristocracy,” said O. H. stiffly. H 


THE ARCHIVE, November, 194 

irned to Ned. “Captain Jennings 
nows w'hy I am here.” 

I “W^ell,” said Ned, “it is something 
■)out a wedding isn’t it.^” 

“"^’es, it is something about a wed- 
/ng isn’t it!” shouted (). H. “^’ou 
■e supposed to he best man at Captain 
opez’ wedding, aren’t you?” 

“Oh dear,” said Ned. His legs 
ickled at the knees and he slowly col- 
psed on the floor. Mona and Hunt 
ished him up again. O. H. took a 
^ep breath. “Captain Jennings,” he 
id, “I have been here for five years, 
ive years. Captain Jennings. Work- 
g, sweating, praying, flattering, ca¬ 
lling to build up good relations with 
je natives, and when an Ecuadorian 
ficer does you the signal honour of 



Semf itenial artist, 

Embroiders frost upon the icindow 
With the sharp needle of the ‘ivind. 
For yarn she uses 

Joan .Angkvine 

king you to be best man at his wed- 
aig, what do you do?” 

“I forgets,” said Ned sadly. 

(). H. was now yelling at the top 
his voice. “\hui will go at once and 
aologize to Captain Lopez. You will 
11 him what a goddamn fool you 

“Yes, sir,” said Ned. He picked up 
s cap and started toward the door. 
yh)u don’t remember what church it 
as at, do you, sir?” 

“What church what was at?” 

“The wedding.” 

. “No I don’t remember,” shouted (). 
j., “but if you don’t find it you’ll he 

i “^'es, sir,” said Ned. .-Vgain he 
jirted for the door, then paused. 
|I here are a hundred and five churches 
I Quito, sir.” 

’ “I don’t care how many churches 
I ere are in Quito, Captain, ^’ou find 
U‘ one with the wedding in it.” 

es, sir,” said Ned gloomily. 
“Come on, Mona. You and your 
friends,” he said bitterly when the)' 
were in the car. “From now onwards 
I’m going to let you go to the dogs 
your own way. Why didn’t you let me 
go home?” 

Mona ignored him. “Let’s try the 
cathedral first,” she suggested. Hut 
there was no wedding at the cathedral, 
nor at the Santa Teresa, nor at the 
Sagrado Corazon, nor at the Imaculada, 
nor at the Santa Maria. In fact there 
was no wedding at any of the hundred 
and five churches in Quito. 

“I'hcy’re probably on their honey¬ 
moon by now,” said Ned. “I suppose 
O. H. will want me to bust in on it 
and apologize.” 

“Lopez,” muttered Mona, “Lopez. 
Why of course, the wedding is prob¬ 
ably in their own chapel. Come on.” 
It looked as if it was. Cars were piled 
up five deep in front of the Lopez 
place. “Now look haught) ,” said .Mona. 
“Look as if you don’t know wh)' )'ou 
should be dragged away from impor¬ 
tant business for an old wedding.” 

Ned looked haughty. In fact, he 
looked .so haughty that several people 
in the fo)er edged away from him in 
alarm. He took his place by Lopez’ 
side. Lopez handed him the ring, and 
he was just in time to hand it back to 
him. ’Lhe wedding was over. “I made 
it,” he said. “What do you know, I made 
it.” He slapped the bridegroom on the 
back, he kissed the bride. In tlie ex¬ 
citement he even kissed Mona. People 
crowded around him, jabbering liappily 
in Spanisli. “Si, Si, Si,” said Ned cheer¬ 
fully, that being the only Spanish word 
he could pronounce with impunit\. 
Lager hands dragged him and .Mona to 
the altar. The bishoji magnificent!» at¬ 
tired in cloth of gold beametl. “Si, Si,” 
said Ned happily. 

“Hut Ned,” said Mona. “W’ait a 
minute, Ned.” 

“Hush,” said Ned. “Don’t interrupt 
junior. W’hat’s he saying?” 

(C.ontinued on Pa^e 2-1) 


All gather for good meals 
in the pleasant atmos¬ 
phere of 


Just off 

Woman’s College Campus 



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IrlE ARCHIVE, November, 1946 



Each month a 
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the person con¬ 
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Stag-line strategy — Stags don’t pick wallflowers who look 
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Then—when 'tall-dark-and-halfback’ asks you to 'swing it,’ 
you (and he) will be glad your breath is sweet! 

The Winning Joke This Month 

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(Continued from Page 12) 

several concerts in Carnegie Hall ti 
packed houses. In his last appearance 
he introduced his new jazz symphony 
“Black, Brown and Beige,” a musica 
masterpiece depicting the history of th 
Negro race. The critics are still dis 
cussing it. 

Ellington is not only famous as : 
leader of a band, but is reknowned alsi 
as pianist, composer, and arranger. Song 
of his such as “Sophisticated Lady,’ 
“Mood Indigo,” “Solitude,” am 
“Don’t Get Around Much Anymore’ 
will be appreciated for many years t 
come. The Duke has reached the to 
because of his fertile and imaginativ' 
mind, which never seems to repeat itself 
His music is moody and expressive. H 
makes the listener feel what music am 
its exponents are trying to relay. A grea 
deal of Ellington’s success in creatinj 
dynamic music is due to the fine musi 
cians within the band and due to th 
fact that most of them have been witi 
him so long. Johnny Hodges, his leai 
sax man, who is almost as famous a 
Ellington himself, has been with th 
band for over twenty years. 

A comparative newcomer to the fieh 
of big band jazz is Woody Herman 
According to a recent poll, he is th 
top band of the day. Herman’s jaz 
leans to the frantic side but is never 
theless exciting and interesting to lov 
ers of jazz. Herman’s jazz is charac 
terized by such numbers as “Wildroot 
and “Your F'ather’s Mustache,” whic 
may sound like so much noise to th 
average listener, but is nevertheless goo 
music, if you understand it. 

Boyd Raeburn, though lesser know 
than Herman and Ellington, is still on 
of the best exponents of big band jaz 
today. Raeburn’s music is slightly syrr 
phonic and is known for its weird hai 
monic ideas. In many arrangement! 
he uses bassoons, flutes and a harp t 
create the desired effect. His sem 
symphonic arrangements employ device 
used by the advanced symphonic con" 


THE ARCHIVE, November, 194 

osers such as Delieus, Spietolf, Tscho- 
^acovitch, Pulvmocher, and Stravinsky. 

We started with The Duke and now 
/e come to The Duke Ambassadors, 
t is very difficult, if not impossible, for 
band to play jazz here at Duke, be- 
ruse the average person does not care 
pr it or does not understand it, which 
all the same. I'herefore the Am- 
issadors curb their own desires to play 
izz in order to please the majority of 
le dancers. However the band does 
y to play enough jazz so that those 
ho are interested will get a few 
kicks” during the evening. Fletcher 
id his band use a mixture of jazz 
vies, some old and some new. Some 
■rangements are of the old Jimmy 
unceford style, some of the Ellington 
yle, and some of the newer ones are 
milar to Gillespie and Kenton. Even 
lough the band does use a mixture of 


Today is stationary^ static, 

Like a sun it holds its flace. 

While yesterdays and tomorrows 
Fling their orbits into space. 

Joan Angevine 

yles, the music produced is pleasing 
lough to the majority of listeners. 

The real jazz men of the band are 
1 leaders in their individual sections, 
ick (Fooskie) Moorehouse, lead alto 
an, is probably the most outstanding 
:leman in the band. He not only 
I'ives the sax section but also plays ex¬ 
iting rides, both sweet and hot. P'ooskie 
/|.s a fine tone and a wide range of 
;eas in addition to the technique to put 
lese ideas across. 

Bob Hutchins, lead trumpet man, is 
:i>o a fine soloist. His style is similar to 
lat of the oft-mentioned Dizzy Gil- 
Ijipie. His terrific power and his ability 
t drive the rest of the brass section 
'lakes this section one of the best the 
.mbassadors have ever had. 

'Tommy P'arr, the first trombonist is 
most experienced man in the band, 
living played with Dean Hudson, 
jany Pastor, and that great band of 

ilE ARCHIVE, November, 1946 

Woody Herman’s before coming to 
Duke. Farr, sensational because of his 
very wide range and beautiful tone, 
makes for pleasant listening at all 

In the rhythm section it’s Schnell and 
Fletcher who stand out. Schnell’s work 
is particularly noticeable behind vocals 
where he plays solid chords with his 
left hand while playing running varia¬ 
tions of the melody with his right 

Fletcher is not the leader of the 
band in name only. He is exactly that, 
due to the fact that he leads the rhythm 
section. Sammy’s fine beat drives the 
band on fast numbers and gives a lift 
to the slow ones. Without a steady beat 
any band is lost and its rhythm is “no¬ 
where.” Sammy not only plays the 
drums but also arranges for the band 
and does a few “scat” vocals on the 

This article would not be complete 
without mentioning some of the alumni 
of the Ambassadors. Probably the most 
famous is one Les Brown, who now has 
his own band. Sonny Burke is another, 
whose background band is heard on all 
of Dinah Shore’s recordings. Another 
past member who was not so widely 
known in the music world but who will 
always be the “prince” of the Ambassa¬ 
dors as far as they are concerned, is 
Vince Courtney. Vince led the band 
from 1940 to 1942 before joining the 
Air Corps. He lost his life in the inva¬ 
sion of Northern P'rance. Vince was 
loved by the whole campus for his 
genial nature and for his sincere mod¬ 
esty. He was the best vocalist the Am¬ 
bassadors have ever had and one of the 
best arrangers. The band still uses the 
theme “Dream Notes,” written by 
Vince, and the song “Blue Skies,” 
which is one of his best arrangements. 
'Fo Vince, the unforgettable Ambassa¬ 
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{Continued from Page 11) 

“Well,” said Mona. 

“Never mind. You talk too min. 
anyway. Give him a chance. Wha 
does he want.?” 

“Five dollars,” said Mona. 

“Five dollars,” said Ned. “Wha 

“Never mind,” said Mona. “G 
ahead and give him the five dollars. 
She dragged him away to the receptio 
room where the punch was served. ] 
was highly original punch. Neat whis 
key in tumbler glasses. Ned backe 

“Go on,” said Mona. “Drink ii 
You’ll need it.” Ned gave her one loo 
and bravely downed the glass. Fiv 
minutes later he came up for air. 

“It had better be good,” he warned 
her. “I am about to lay violent hair 
on you.” 

“Ned,” said Mona, “I hate to tel 
you but we just got married.” 

“What.?” said Ned, “married! Oh 
migod no! ” 

“Well I don’t think you’re bein;' 
very complimentary,” said Mona. 

“Complimentary! With you hun; 
around my neck the rest of my life 
What do you want me to do, have 
nervous breakdown?” 

“We can have it annulled,” sail 
Mona firmly. 

“Oh, so you don’t think I’m goo' 
enough for you now. Well let me tel! 
you there aren’t going to be any ani 
nulments around here. When I do 
thing I do it right.” 

“But you didn’t know you were do 
ing it,” said Mona. 

“Don’t quibble,” said Ned loftih 
His face cracked in a wide grin. “Wei 
I did you out of your white satin an 
orange blossoms anyway.” He put h 
arm around her. “Come on, piefacf 
let’s go home. I hope you can cook.” 


THE ARCHIVE, November, 194 

$0 snart and snag and smug 

in her new 

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Eitiii(|oni (ln|ed lainiib 

Slie feels so luxurious and 
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Bube ®[nit)Ergitp 

Curricula, equipment and expense information 
may be obtained from: 

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Address applications and inc/uiries to 


Duke University Durham, North Carolina 





Duke's N/te at the Meadowbrook 

H\ I, INDY SriNERS iV Co. 

' ru.i> the ni^ht after Xmas 
Re.ute 2.^ 

K\-t\ ereatiire was ilriving 
r.■ 1-rank's niter\. 

f rom the Ford, Dodge, etc. 

’I'hen rose such a noise 
That the neighbors all peered out . . . 
S.i\^ Duke gals and bo\s. 

Who were lured b\ the lights of 
The old Meadowbrook, 

.\nd who hurried and scurried 
For their Duke Night nook. 

(), the scene thru the dooruav 
Warmed man\ a heart— 

Sueet and hot music as played 
I'here bv Lcs Elgart. 

And now as the night wore on 
And trumpets did sing 
Fhe old-fashioned "Xule Spirit 
Continued to ring. 

At the Meadoubrook now 
Since the end of the war 
'Fhey’ve been ha\ing these Duke Nights 
As never before, 

And so now once again with 
Fhe place up to par 
'Fhere is dancing and music 
.More groo\’v by far. 

So the night hours passed on 
So frosty and cold 
\\X sat there and realized 
’Twas time that we rolled. 

.And though sail as we drove off 
\\A said with delight 
Merry Christmas and New A’ear 
.And Flappy Duke Night. 

“What’s the commotion P” 

“Oh, I don’t know. I think some 
lady just fainted from nervous pros¬ 

fie often was hard to understand— 
like a word that has an r in the middle 
of it, and you don’t know whether' 
to pronounce the .v with the first part ! 
of the word or the last. | 

Inquisitive—like a mountain road. 

A’es, Oscar certainly was Wilde. 

She said that he reminded her of 
spaghetti—and he believed her, know- i 
ing of her love for spaghetti. 

It was one of those “B” melodramas 
in which everyone looks as if he has a 


“I’d commit suicide in a minute— 
but what if there’s something to this 
reincarnation business? ” 

Hope springs internal. 

Two men standing on opposite sides i 
of a window see different views; yet 
they look at the same thing. So it is 
with life. 



Student Supplies — Radios & Phonograph Records 
Kodaks & Photographic Supplies — Candies — Drugs 
Tobacco — Fountain Luncheonette 
Cosmetics & Perfumes 

Open Mon.-Sat. 9:00 A.M.—11:00 P.M. 

Meredith Moore—’32 Sun. 12:00 Noon—11:00 P.M. O. G. Sawyer—’23 





DECEMBER, 1!)4(> 


deceinber 194 g 

his ...At o nth 

If V()u’\e :i yen for fiction, you sliould 
like this issue of tlie Archive because it’s 
stroll"' on short stories . . . four in all. Lewis 
Buck anil Mac Hyman are appearing- for 
tlie first time between these covers. Buck’s 
1 “.'\n(l Off He does” is a fine piece of work 
depicting tlie creative thouglit stream of 
a writer; and Hyman, a member of Hr. 
Blackburn’s writing class, gives us a look 
into the mind of a man against the world 
in “The Bus Ride.” Joan Angevine, our 
Poetrv Editor, turns from her usual field 
to write “The Man On The Bridge” with 
' excellent results. Larry Coe’s near-profes¬ 
sional drawing only reaffirms the tjualitv 
of liis top-flight work. Our A.ssistant Edi¬ 
tor, Peg Throne, is represented by a ma- 
' ture ami well-done piece, “Ma Femme.” 

Just tlie mention of Dr. Rhine’s name 
should be enough to make vou want to read 
Bill Styron’s fine “sketch.” Evervone is fa¬ 
miliar in some degree with Dr. Rhine’s work, 
and Bill’s article gives us an informative 
insight into the personalitv and work of 
one of Duke’s better-known faculty members. 

Coal ... a timely topic vou must admit 
j ... is per.sonified in Terrence’s dramatic 
' jioem of the .same name. I'lie striking illus- 
! trations were created bv .Margaret Meeker. 

1 .'Vrcliie, along with evervone else, grows 
h nostalgic at this Christmas time. But we’re 
j not completely so because we, the Staff 
of the .-Xrchivk (along with .-Vrcliie), wish 
you all the \ery Merriest Christmas. 

^^itorial Staff 

Virginia Anne Gunn, Editor 
David W. Pick, Associate Editor 
Peggy Throne, Assistant Editor 
Frank Trechsel, Art Editor 
Bi rsY John Hurley, Exchange Editor 
Joan Angevine, Poetry Editor 


Bob Loomis 
Bill Styron 
Joe Di Mon^ 
Cynthia Barrell 
Charlotte Mill 
Pete Wile 
Pat Wi.mberley 
Clarence Brown 
K: T i "i' 

Ned Martin 
Bob Allen 
Larry Coe 
Marion Fox 
Gordon Nazor 
Bill Snitger 
Sally Bowmall 
Jack Matlock 

Last month we received a letter from 
Marjorie Mackenzie of I'oronto, Canada. 
I he letter began as follows: “The enclosed 
})oem, tonniila For Peace, mav interest vou 
because it is based on the assumption that 
Extra-Sensory Perception is a demonstrable, 
usable force—which I believe it is.” It was a 
fortunate coincidence that this poeiti should 
reach us at the time it did, for our Sketches 
de)iartment this month features Dr. Rliitic, 
the man whose work inspired .Miss .Macketizie. 


asm ess 


Clifford E. Blackwell, Business Manager Hudson, Assistant Business Manager 
Dee Centner, Coed Business Manage/ 
Bill Bryant, Advertising Manager 
Colbert Smith, Circulation Manager 


Betty Bayliss 
Gloria Koi.tinsky 
Sara Huckle 
Shirley Dick 
.Margaret Frans 
Carl Burgert 
Sis Watson 
Genevieve Parks 

Eleanor Brinn 
.Mary .\nn Duncan 
L ou Bello 
Slim Baird 
Jane .Matthaus 
Nancy Rousseau 
Jane Scarborough 
Sandy Jones 
K.ESTER, Slim Baird, 

Typists: Nancy 

Charm IAN Scates 


We all know that Dr. Rhine’s experi¬ 
ments .are ktiow ii the world oxer; but .\Iiss 
.Mackenzie, in her letter, gaxe us some ad¬ 
ditional information that we think is itt- 
teresting enough to pass on to vou. She 
cpiotes to us from Whately Carington’s book 
Telepathy, which was itublished in London. 

“ ‘It is very difficult fairly to assess the 
xalue of Rhine’s contribution to the subject, 
beyond saying that it is immetise. No other 
man, I suppose, has done anvthing like so 
much to put these phenomena “on the map,” 
at least as a matter for discussion—which is 
a necessarv stage on the road to general 
acceptanee.’ ” 

“So vou see,” cotitinues Miss .Mackenzie, 
“Duke, and Dr. Rhine, and the .\rchivi are 
known and retpeeted far beyotui the limits 
of vour owti countrx.” 

We thank you, .Mackenzie, tor your 
kind and most welcotne obse-rvations and 
for your allowing us to use For/nula For 
Peace in the .\rcHIVE. 




''Say It With Flowers’" 

I'lie DiiVal Hackett W ay is very simple! 

1. Phono L-9().5 

' 1 . Toll us rooi]Mont's naino and addross. 
d. Toll us kind of fiowors desired. 

4. Toll us oard to he enolosod. 

a. Toll us vour name and box uuiuhor. 

W 0 will deliver yoiii- flowers, charge them, and mail you statement first of 

following month. 

Dance Decorations a Specialty 


Automatic revolving crystal balls, spot bulbs in colors, flood lights, large movable spot lights for 
following dancers on the floor, or spotting singers or special entertainers, color wheels for beauti¬ 
ful and subdued lighting effects, fringes, festoonings, balloons, flags, shields and coconut palm 


117 N. Mangum St. 
(Opposite Duke Power Co.) 
Phone L-965 

Hours: 8:30 A.M. till 6 P.M. 

Washington Duke Lobby 
Phone F-101—Ext.: Flower Shop 
Hours 1 P.M. till 8 P.M. 

Sat. 1 P.M. till 10 P.M. 

rOuVal Hackett 






Vol. Sixty December, 1946 No. 4 

In This Issu^ 

Duke’s Nigh t at the Meadowbrook . page 2 

By Lindy Stivers and Co. 

'Ehis Monih .pa<re 3 

Concerning . page 3 

Archie Speaks .page 7 

IVIa L emme . page 9 

By Peggy d'krone 

Sketches: Dr. J. H. Rhine . page 12 

By Bill Styron 

And Off He Goes . .page 14 

By Leivis A. Buck 

Coal . 16 

By Terrence 

T'he Man on the Rridge page IS 

B V Joan A ngevine 

Book Review . page 20 

B\ Robert Loomis 

1'he Bus Ride . page 21 

By Mac Hyman 

A Moyithly Magazine Published by the Students of Duke University 
DurhasHy North Carolina 

The publication of articles on controversial topics docs not necessarily mean that the Editor or the Uni¬ 
versity endorses them. The names and descriptions of all characters in the fiction of this magazine are 
fictitious. Any resemblance to any person or persons is not intended and is purely coincidental. 

Notice of entry: "Acceptance for mailing at special rate of postage provided for in Section 1103, Act of 
October 3, 1917. Authorized December 4, 1924." Entered as second-class mail matter at the 
Post Office at Durham, N. C. 


Copyiigln, 1 )cccnilii.T, 1946, li\ Clifford 4,. Black\scll 







Archie Speaks 

In Durham, it was Christmas time 
again. Huge jolly Santa Clauses 
beamed from every light post on Main 
Street, giving the drab and dreary town 
a look of uncommon brightness and 

Feminine shoppers elbowetl impor¬ 
tantly about the streets, stopping to 
look in at Baldwin’s, munching a quick 
sandwich in Walgreen’s, picking up 
their husbands again at the bowling al¬ 

By Ellis-Stone’s a ragged foursome 
sann: Christmas carols for the Salvation 
Army, while grimy tobacco farmers 
slouched against the building, listening 
lackadaisically, pausing intermittently to 
arc huge chews of tobacco into the 

Withal there was a new and happy 
spirit in the air. 'J'he mellow scent of 
tobacco which forever haunted the 
town became suddenly pleasant ami 
comtorting. F.veryone spoke happily to 
everyone else, everyone smiled inces¬ 
santly. 'J'here was even talk—as there 
always is in the South—of snow for 

* jK * * 

In ’P'risco now the fog came rolling 
in early from the sea, blanketing the 
whole city so that only "Felegraph Hill 
stood out above the mist. Late revelers 
clinked glasses in the 'Fop of the Mark, 
peering out through the high windows 
toward the sea, to glimpse through a 
sudden rift in the fog the lovely lights 
of ships at sea making their way slowly 

to the harbor. 

By da\ the common people thronged 
in Market Street looking for inex¬ 
pensive gifts among the many little 
shops. 'Fhe moneyed folk went uptown 
to Geary Street and Powell to buy the 
selfsame gifts at higher prices. 

By night the bar at the St. Francis 
was still filled with traveling men, 
while slightly down the street the 
’I'ankee Doodle bar still bulged with 
lonely, inviting girls, fresh out of 
Reno, looking for servicemen, husbands, 
or just a good time. 

* * * * 

In Boston it was colder than ever. 
On 'Fremont Street the neon lighteil 
theatres gleamed invitingly as always, 
promising warmth and comfort with¬ 
in. Siilewalk idlers watched the head¬ 
line news move swiftly in lights along 
the face of South Station. 

Fhe .Merr\-Go-Round Bar in the 
Copley Plaza was as crowded as ever, 
moving slowlv in its appointed circle, 
while the old l;uly fortune teller bar- 
g.ained with each t.ible as it went 

By the Hotel 'I'our.iine, on the 
“windiest corner in the world,” cold- 
eyed New Englanders p.iused to button 
up their coats and wait tor traffic. 

In the Boston Commons, okl men 
still sat on benches, huddling in their 

worn coats as the icy winds came cruelly 
off Commonwealth .Avenue, shivering, 
and thinking — perhaps — of other 
w.armer Christmases long ago. 

* * * * 

In New A’ork everything—as usual 
—was moreso than any place else. Gim- 
bcPs and .Macy’s offereil all sorts of 
attractive items for gift-hungr)' house¬ 
wives, and Altman’s and Saks made 
window eyes at all the carriage trade. 

On l imes Square there were three 
separate groups of carollers, singing to 
tile wiiuls and the indifferent crowds. 
Subways bulgeil with p.asseniiers, loaded 
with bulky bundles, rocketing to ami 
fro beneath the cit\. 

In front of the .Astor Bar a Santa 
Claus shuffled his feet in the cold, 
watching the people pass, now and then 
ringing the bell in his mitteneil right 
haml. High above him, across the street, 
the civilian in the Camels’ ad coughed 
unceasing smoke rings into the colil air, 
while down the wa\ a neon-lighted 
silhouetted dancer t.apped effortlessK 
.ind endlessU in silhouette. 

* * * * 

In Durham, ’frisco, Boston, New 
A’ork; and in Fall River, W’innetka, 
Gross Point, Oakland, and Walla 
W'alla; in all the cities, towns, and 
hamlets throughout the land there was 
a nev\' and sharpeneil appreciation of 
well-bein<j, a reaw.ikened sense of com¬ 
radeship and good neighborlines^. 

For it was Christmas. 




Santa’s Gift Court is the answer to your ques¬ 
tion: What shall I give? Charming things for 
her to wear, handsome accessories for him, 
lovely enduring gifts for the home, splendid 
toys for the children—you don’t have to think 
out what they should be— we’ll show you! 
Just come on in. 

He put his arms around her and sat there for several uiiuutes tryiun to thiuh of u hat to say. 


By VEiA;\ THK()^^: 

rjE THOUGH!' about it as soon as 
he got awake in the morning, 
ind he remembered how angry he had 
)ecn the night before. Those smart- 
ilecs up at the inn who had nothing 
letter to do than sit around and watch 
vomcn! He hadn’t heard exactly what 
hey had said, but be knew it was some- 
hing about Josey from the way they 
lad watclied her, and lie had caught 
‘French girl” when one of them leaned 
liver and whispered something to the 
ithers. Maybe he sbould have gone 
I'ack and had it out with them right 
hen.' But that would have called every- 
ne’s attention to it, and the town’s 
nly minister shouldn’t get into any 

I * ■ 

I'lrt of argument. P'.vcn if your wife 

was insulted, ^’ou just turned the other 
check. l!esidcs, he didn’t think Josey 
had noticed, and the best thing was 
just to keep his feelings to himselt. H\ 
the time breakfast was over he telt 
somewhat better, but he still didn’t want 
to talk, .-\fter they had eaten, he sat 
at the table trying to think. He should 
be out visiting, he knew. Somehow he 
couldn’t bear to think of being genial 
and conversational this morning. 

Josey was tying on her apron. Fast 
night hadn’t been the first time. There 
had been little things ever since the\ 
came- remarks, or just the wa\ peo¬ 
ple looked at them when they didn’t 
think he was noticing. I'or some lea- 
son thc\ thought it odd for a toting 
minister to hate a French wife. He had 
decided right awat that it was best 
for Joset to be around them as litth 
;is possible, but it was rather difficult 




: -ui, .is small ;i> this. Perhaps he 
■- ' .i\e become an assistant pastor 
' ; ._s church instead of taking 
ri s c.'untrv pi'St, but he had thought the 
e\;'.r'-iKa uanild be \aluable, and he 
..ccepted the offer just before his 
', ' ,;rgs. He had planned so main 
ti' igs the church here, so many 
things that didn't materialize. If things 
hadn't gone right, it wasn’t entirely 
his fault. I'he time had just gone too 
fast, and every day he felt his failure 
more keenly. 


E.xacth what was wrong he didn’t 
know, but though he would not admit 
it even to himself, his lack of accom¬ 
plishment was always vaguely con¬ 
nected with Josev. He watched her 
move about the kitchen. She was wear¬ 
ing soft felt slippers and her feet made 
no sound on the wood floor. He told 
himself she was much too attractive 
for a place like this. He should take 
her away. There had been an offer 
from a Dr. Mason in Philadelphia. 
Maybe it wasn’t too late . . . People 
wouldn’t be so curious there. 

He got up and began clearing the 
table of the few remaining dishes. 
“T’ank you,” she said when he set them 
on the sink. She poured some hot water 
into the pan. 

“’^'ou still don’t have the ‘th’ sound,” 
he said. “It’s easy, just put your tongue 
behind your teeth, like this, ‘th’.” She 
tried again, but it still came out with 
the hard t. Maybe it was because she 
hadn’t been around many people up 
here, but she ought to catch on from 
hearing him talk. 

He picked up one of the dishes and 
began to wipe it. At home his mother 
had never let him do anything like 
that. She had old fashioned ideas about 
a woman’s place and duties, and some¬ 
times he used to think it was kind of 
silly the way she pampered him and 
his father. But it did have its sound 

points too. It might be good if some 
more people had ideas like that . . . 
He would try to bring that into his 
sermon Suiuhu. He took a cup from 
Josey and poured out the water that 
was in the bottom. 

“The weather will he good today,” 
she said looking out the little window 
over the sink. “Very cold, but clear.” 

“fi’es,” he said. Sometimes the way 
she phrased things got on his nerves. 
“I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if we got 
some more snow before evening. We’re 


up pretty high, you know.” 

“Shall we do somethingp” she asked. 

He shrugged and said nothing. 

“Let’s go to the lake,” she was say¬ 
ing. “Can we, Henri.!”’ ghe always 
said Henri instead of Henry. He used 
to like it. In France it seemed to fit 
in with things. He even used to call 
her ma jennne then. Silly, he thought. 
But it did suit her better than wy wife 

She was holding a plate for him to 
take, and was looking at him ques- 
tioningly. “Henri?” she repeated. Her 
voice was teasing. “I want you to take 
me ice skating.” 

“All right!” He hadn’t meant to 
sound so harsh. He took the plate from 
her too quickly and almost let it drop. 

“I am sorry,” she said. 

“My fault. We’ll go over to the 
lake after lunch.” He set the plate 
down and waited for her to hand him 

“What is wrong?” she asked. 

“Nothing. Nothing’s wrong. I was 
just thinking.” 

She said nothing for several minutes 
and stood trailing the dish cloth slowly 
through the water. 

“I thought I’d call that Dr. Mason 
today,” he said abruptly at length. 
“About Philadelphia. How would you 
like that?” He paused momentarily. “I 
can’t seem to get anything across up 

here. I don’t know what kind of a 
minister they had before, but he must 
have been different from me. If wc 
go to Philadelphia, I’ll have less re¬ 
sponsibility, and maybe I can show you 
a better time. Should have done it long 
ago, I guess. But that’s me for you.” 
She did not seem to be aware of his 
voice. Apparently what he had said 
did not appeal to her. Now she’d be 
pouting again, but she’d get over it. 
She always did. The last time it had 
been because he wouldn’t let her tryi 
to teach him French. 

“Mais pourquoi?” she had said. 
Pourquoi! Fat lot of sense there was 
to that. It wasn’t that he couldn’t have 
learned it. He had had Spanish in col¬ 
lege, but he could see no percentage 
in it. He preached in English, and 
one had to be practical. When he 
needed French, he had managed to pick 
up enough to get by. Most of the sol¬ 
diers who spoke it well just used it to 
pick up as many women as they could. 
Then they’d come to him with their 
troubles, but he always felt they were 
secretly laughing at him and would go 
off and make jokes about talking with 
the chaplain. 

He used to write his mother about 
them, not everything, just how they 
caroused around all the time. He had 
written her about Josey too, about how 
different she was from the other French 
girls, and how fortunate it was that 
she happened to be Protestant. He had 
waited until after the wedding to tell 
her anything about their marriage, and 
then he hadn’t heard from her for over 
five weeks. That had been her way of 
(Continued on Page 22) 

Joyful all ye nations rise; 

Join the triumph of the skies 


Photograph by Norman Anderson 



s li n c 

t s 

T;'>SFPH HANKS RHINK, a niild- 
*■' ' .a-u ivd and unassuming scientist, 

\ , n to elaborate statements or 
t 'iialism. liut one night last sum- 
a, ^ot up before a microphone in 
N.w 't’ork and in a soft, somewhat 
-..Ituig \oice told the world that finally 
tl - re seems to be scientific evidence that 
‘'.;mans possess something in the nature 
. f a Soul. Not onh' this, he comfort- 
incH added, but in the light of research 
doiu 'll extrnsensorv perception—a field 
in {istchol.igv of which he is the out¬ 
standing proponent—there appears to be 
a possibilitt of life after death. 

The person who uttered these rather 
auspicious words is a professor of psy- 
chol..j\ at Duke, a greving, handsome, 
and pleasant man who, despite the fact 
that he has been sneered at from many 
an academic corner, maintains an al¬ 
most disarming air of self-assurance. 
Probable no scientist of recent years, 
certainly no psychologist, has received 
more criticism and sharp looks of 
askance, \et Rhine—now' in his eight¬ 
eenth vear of research at Duke—seems 
certainly possessed of a sincere confi¬ 
dence in his w'ork and discoveries. 

When E.xtra-Sensory Perception—or 
E..S.P., as it is familiarly known—is 
mentioned to the average person who 
i^ only slightly acquainted with the sub¬ 
ject, he usually associates the name with 
grave and earnest young people brood¬ 
ing over a pack of cards or solemnly 
rolling dice. In some measure this is 
true, but again most laymen have only 
a -.light idea of the meaning behind 
all these goings-on. The general goal 
of E.S.P. research, as Dr. Rhine ex¬ 
plain'- it, is the study of telepathy and 
clairvoyance—which heretofore have 
been surrounded with an air of the 
occult and mysterious—in the hope that 
insight into these unusual powers of 
the human mind will eventually lead 

to further knowledge of man and his 
place in the universe. To some people 
these are pretentious words, yet Rhine, 
a thoroughgoing scientist who dotes on 
fact and proof, says: “The evidence 
that extrasensory perception of the mind 
exists is so great that no one has had 
time to read it all.” 

One of the most remarkable things 
about Rhine is the fact that as an in¬ 
quiring young man studying for the 
ministry he found himself at odds with 
theological doctrines—mainly those 
which concern the existence of the soul 
—and instead of accepting such vague 
theories he turned to psychology, and 
eventually to the present field of psy¬ 
chical research. After taking his Ph.D. 
degree at Chicago in 1925, Rhine 
taught at the University of West Vir¬ 
ginia for two years, and then came to 
Duke where, under the sponsorship of 
the late Dr. Few and Dr. McDougall, 
he founded the Parapsychology labora¬ 

Extra-Sensory J’erception, as a field 
of study, is quite an involved affair and 

Caricature By 
Clarence Brown 

has developed, during its relatively , 
youthful span as a branch of psychol¬ 
ogy, quite a number of devious and 
complicated ramifications. In general, 
though, E.S.P. consists of controlled 
experiments and tests on individuals, 
which are calculated to determine the .j 
ability of the mind to transcend itself li 
and reach out into space and time. One 
experiment, probably the best known, \ 
involves a pack of cards upon which 
are printed a number of designs, such , 
as a star, a circle, and so on. Sitting 
in another room, separated from the 
operator of the test, the subject presses 
a button to signal that he is ready to 
concentrate on the card that the op¬ 
erator is holding in his hand. When j. 
the image of the design, if any, has 
been summoned to mind, the subject 
marks it down on a sheet of paper. 
After two or three “runs” are made, 
the operator’s list and the subject’s list 
are checked against each other and the 
result tallied. A representative of the i- 
Archive took the test recently and, ■ 
having scored above chance in guessing ( 
identical cards, he was awarded a ticket | 
to the Center theatre. ' 

Other experiments have been made, j 
involving all sorts of conditions and | 
people. Tests have been conducted j 
where operator and subject were sepa- 1 I 
rated by thousands of miles, and ac- ■ 
cording to Rhine the factor of space i 
has no effect on the results. Children 1 
have been subjects, as have blind peo- t 
pie and students; and in 1938 a group ( 
of psychotic patients were tested in 
Ohio. The extrasensory perception of I 
future events has been investigated, too, f 
with results which were so favorable i 
that Rhine has ruled out chance as a 
possible explanation. U 

Dr. Rhine was born in 1895 in Wat- | 
erloo, Pennsylvania, and served as a || 
sergeant in the Marine Corps during | 




World War I. In 1919, he won Hrst 
place in the National Rifle Matches at 
Caldwell, New Jersey, but has done lit¬ 
tle shooting lately. In 1920 he married 
Louisa W^eckesser, who is a doctor in 
her own right, and who has aided Rhine 
in much of his work. 'Lhey have four 

Rhine is a tall, rather heavy-set man 
with a high forehead, deep-set eyes, and 
dark brows. He is somehow youthful 
looking, but with a head of greying 
hair—an appearance which prompted 
the phrase “sex-appeal” from one of 
the younger female members of the 
Duke faculty. His office on the second 
floor of the West Duke building ad¬ 
joins the dozen or so rooms which com¬ 
prise the Parapsychology laboratory, and 
is quite plain and unadorned except for 
a pair of huge red dice which rest in 
an ashtray on his desk. Rhine is a very- 
cordial and gracious man, and as a psy¬ 
chologist has applied the shrewd ap¬ 
proach of having the chair in which the 
visitor sits built approximately a foot 
from the floor, in order that he may- 
lean over his desk and gaze clown 
amiably into his visitor’s upturned eyes. 
He is also a very busy man, seemingly- 
occupied with his work night and day, 
but his office is open to the right peo¬ 
ple. His secretary, a bespectacled young 
gentleman, confided that those who an¬ 
noy Dr. Rhine the most are people who 
come in wanting to write about him 
or publicize his works. 

“But let some poor mousey guy come 
. in here who’s got troubles he wants to 
unload,” the secretary said, “and 
Rhine’ll listen to him for hours, and 
talk to him.” 

Although Rhine occasionally rides a 
bicycle, his hobby is hiking, and outside 
of this and his work, another of his 
' great interests is Persian rugs. 

“It’s funny,” the secretary said, “hut 
he’s c)-ax\ about Persian rugs. Why, 
he’d rather be on a Persian rug than 
. . . than eat a turkey- tlinner.” 

W’hen he’s not hiking or standing on 
Persian rugs or working, Rhine man¬ 

ages to carry on a large correspondence, 
personal and otherwise. Such a ven¬ 
ture as exploring the mind, and with 
the far-reaching implications which 
Rhine attaches to his work, naturally 
occasions interest and inquiries from 
scholarly sources and from the general 
public, aiul Rhine, no slacker, he, is an 
assiduous correspondejit. 

Rhine, though he has been assailed 
by many critics, staunchly and calmly 
maintains the validity of his findings. 


Though! through space — 

Reaching unreasoning minds and nvilling 
them to ’war. 

The mass mind of man ’icilling its own de¬ 

Under the Will to Power. 

The ’world lies ’wounded — dying—under the 
Will to Poiver. 

Thought through space —- 

This is the power behind the Will to Power. 

.■Is sound is sent from centres of control., 

'To reach the listener in far distant places. 

So thought can be profected. 'Thought 
through space. 

And here is hope. Here is the new hypnosis. 
Here is the promise of a world from which 
All hate, and war, and fear can be removed. 

'Thought through space — 

'The Will to Peace, reaching unreasoning 

'That yet can feel the thought-beat of the 

'The Will to Peace, 

And the mass mind of man can will its own 

Mar.iorik Macki nzik 

A local campus philosopher, in an in¬ 
direct manner, has said th.-it Dr. Rhine 
is soniething short of dementeil, and 
that, in the first place, you can’t prove 
extrasensory perception at all merely be¬ 
cause you have to have sensory evidence. 
'To this Rhine replies th;it no one has 
ever seen the atom and yet. Clod knows, 
it’s there. 

“Such ;i criticism could never come 
from a scientist,” Rhine says. “As 
with the atom, you can’t prove that 
there are any definite factors which go 
to m;ike up heredit\. Prove it, that 

is, from a sensory standpoint. W’e’ve 
never seen a gene, and y-et we know 
that it is there, and we know that it’s 
a direct factor in the transmission of 
hereditary characteristics. You see, a 
great part of science deals with the in¬ 
visible, hut deals with it through in¬ 
ferences from physical findings. Science 
checks by experiment. K.S.P. does this. 
All psychology deals with the invisible; 
why not E.S.P..i^ An astronomer never 
secs the orbits of the planets. He’s got 
to infer them, as we in E.S.P. infer 
siqrerphysical characteristics of the mind 
from our fimlings.” 

According to Dr. Rhine, no one has 
ever criticized his work directly. It 
they did, he has a standing invitation 
to serious skeptics to come up to the 
laboratory and check the analysis and 
figures. "Ehe most common indirect 
criticism is not that E.S.P. does not 
exist, but that its existence is presumed 
on faulty computations and mathe¬ 
matics. "Eo this Rhine replies in the 
words of Burton H. Camp, who was 
president of the .American Institute of 
.Mathematical Stfitistics. Camp, who 
with a committee investigated the 
Rhine report, said; “If the Rhine in¬ 
vestigation is to be fairly attacked, it 
must be on other than mathematical 
grounds. ’Ehe statistical analysis is es¬ 
sentially valid.” 

Rhine, in a new hook not yet puh- 
lisheil, to he called The Rrach of the 
.Vlin/l, is putting forth a comjrrehensive 
survey and summation of E.S.P. re¬ 
search so far. Of special importance is 
the section which deals with the relation 
between psycholog\- :uul religion, ;md 
since Rhine’s aim is to commensu- 
r;ite psychology-, especial 1\ E.S.P., with 
religion, he has taken great jiains to 
m:ike clear his stand on the question. 

If his discoveries, and the ilisco\-eries 
of those who have collaborated with 
him, form an\ sort of tlatum—in the 
sense that there is evitlence of non- 
physic.'il proj^erties of the mind—then, 
.'iccordini’; to Rhine, the theory of the 
{I'.ontinued on Page ' 







'T'HF. SUN was going down, ami a 
crisp evening breeze reminded 
Heiit!: V Williams that spring was only 
imceitainlv here. 1 he rock on which 
he sat was still slightly warm from 
the sun. but he knew it would not re¬ 
main so for long. 

I'hev would be e.xpecting him for 
supper. There would be a row if he 
were late attain. He should go now. 

Of course, it was beautiful, the 
sunset, but somehow saying it was 
beautiful was not enough. If he tried 
hard enough he might find the right 
words to describe it. The tops of the 
trees seemed to be burning without a 
riame. 'J'here was poetry in such a 
scene, l^ine trees butter-fellow . . . 
d'he sun a globe of molten gold . . . 
N'l! Pine trees smouldering in the 
melting glare. But damn it! It just 
would not work. All the words were 
wrong. .All the words he thought of 
were wrong. I'hev were too forced. 
If poetrv wanted to be born, it would 
he born. A’ou did not have to per¬ 
form a Caesarean for it. I'he idea 
snagged in his mind. Brain children. 
He r.-iild hear them in \ears to come, 
as he bent over to admire some jvoet’s 
progeny. Whispers . . . He’s such a 
nice person. He loves other people’s 
brain children so. 'J'oo bad he never 
had any of his fjwn. J’oor Williams. 
.A little odd. d oo bad. I suppose he’s 

“Doll’" boy’s asleep under a stile” 
... I hat didn’t mean an\ thing. But 
the next words . . . “His lips drink 
water, but his heart drinks wine” . . . 

That means everything. My lips drink 
water and it’s water. No miracles for 
me. Will you have a glass of sherry, 
.Mr. W^illiams—Bentley? No, thank 
you. Miss Muse. A'ou can’t fool me. 
It’s only water—and probably distilled 
water at that. Sherry, Mr. Williams— 
Bentley? Would your muse call you 
by your first name, or would she say 
.If;-. WiUlnnis^. Waitress, take back 
this barrel of rainwater; I asked for 
a cask of amontillado. Poe . . . Edgar 
.Allan . . . Wonder if his heart drank 
wine. His lips did. 

Bentley pushed himself to his feet 
and collected his books. As he started 
off, he limped, but after a few steps his 
foot woke up and he swung on down 
the path at a relaxed pace, his lips 
forming the habitual words: 

“Let us go then, you and I 
When the evening is spread out 
agaijist the sky 

Like a patient etherized upon a 

through certain ha 1 f-dese rted 
streets? Nay, God Mi’ lord, through 
certain half-deserted bridle paths. And 
it goes on ... I am not Prince Hamlet, 
nor was meant to be ... I should have 
been a pair of ragged claws. I have 
heard the mermaids singing each to 
each “The Love Song of A. Alfred 
Prufrock” ... I do not think that 
they will sing to me . . . Turn the vol¬ 
ume up a bit. What time do the mer¬ 
maids come on? There’s too much 
static. 'Fry another station . . . The 
mermaids singing . . . Till human voice 
wake us , . . But not to me. 

He was still contemplating the west¬ 
ern sky. 'I'his was the moment for con¬ 
ception . . . yes, intercourse with Beauty 
. . . (But gestation was a waste of 
time, and labor too much trouble) . . 
But not me. I am Beauty’s fool, not 
her lover. I drink water ami its water 
. . . “wine is wine, and water only 
water in our house” ... so I never (rot 
drunk with Beauty . . . and we never 
had any children . . . no mermaids 
singing . . . “ ’til human voices wake 
us and we drown.” 

Tiger lilies and purple shadows, and 
a white violet beside a mossy stone, night 
noises up and over. Crickets. A bat 
performing a darting ballet—to a 
cricket obligato. The hoarse squawk 
of a frog—sounds as if he had a frog- 
in his throat. And over there ... (It 
was a million-leaved mimosa) . . . and 
before that, something about the sun 
caught in the mimosa like an immense 
egg of fire . . . cradled in the mimosa, 
that was it. 

It’s all been said before. Everything 
I want to say has been said before. If 
only I could find a new way to say 
—way to say—way to say . . . new 
words, a new language. But that 
wouldn’t work . . . someone else would 
have to understand it or there’d be no 
use ... I think in quotes, or para¬ 
phrase. All my music is stolen . . . my 
lyrics lifted . . . it’s a steal. But I 
must keep trying always all ways to 
make music . . . always all ways . . . 
even the Steinway ... I am I because 
my little dog knows—aroses arose. Miss 
Muse, if you don’t settle down, I’m 
(Continued on Pa^e 2(i) 

ThaVs Lovely 
And Handsome 

Getting Into The 


Photo by Norman Anderson 


'-r ' . <■. >! spu'x t 
■ uhrii I It'dp and fro/ia and iliiu- 

spirit and ynnr body with my 




V a happY i i'i-ning :ir spmid together. 

. \ ni haie no need of me n)id I ant go}ie. 
•/ \our hoiife alone and read your ne-ws- 

-d f the strikes in the steel mills and the 

Dial Pltkms 1300 and say, ''Mr. Schwart 
Weather mati saxs snow. Se?id some coalP 

Presidents speech arid the Market Reports, and 
Then YOU read the little box down in the lower 

right corner where it says 

While you read you puff out your Ups and rub your 
chin which is beginning to bristle a little be¬ 
cause the water wasn’t quite hot this morning 
and a man can’t shave dose in cold weather-, 
can he? 

And you say, "Rrn-rn Hm-m.” 

You reach over and pick up the phone, 

That’s me. 

I am coal. 

Conceived in another world. 

Spawned in Chaos, 

1 was born from the womb of a nascent earth, 
yet trembling imvardly and wondering 
W hence. 

I was a child when the first transiuscent mass 
of animal jelly 
Began to quiver and move 
With new-found life. 

/ was hut a youth -when the mighty cremr. 
of a still-fresh sea 

Liver and died and fought their way 
Toward an even higher plane of evolutio 
I had reached a majestic maturity when ii 
first ancestor crawled from slimy wi 
of the teeming swamps, i 

Dragged itself with finny limbs 
Up, up onto the sand, 

A nd lay there exhausted, 

A nd breathed air. 

/ watched him, aloof at first, 

Wetching him as he grew hair on scaly f 
Watched him as he stretched upright 
And his limbs grew straight and strong^ 
Watched him and came to hate him. 
Even from the first he was not as other 

^Taking life cheaply where he found it,'I 
ing and being killed, 
lie was weak and powerless. He had no ly 
nor fangs. 

And he survived. 

/ hated him from my lofty heights, 

Despised that shrewd cunning, that -wisdoju older 
than his years. 

That made him lord of all that he surveyed 
By artifice, and not by clean battle of tooth atid 

And blood and jnuscle. 

Yet even as he waxed strong, I became weak, 
Atid stumbled and toppled to the ground. 

And fell asleep. 

/ am coal. Man woke me from niy slumbers. 
Aroused me from my well-deserved rest 
To serve him. 


Selfish mole. 

Forging monsters which tear my flesh 
Fo feed the monsters 
JP ho forge the monsters 
It ho rend my body atid tear sny soul. 

A nd reach out with steel-ribbed arms 
A nd cast me into hungry throats 
Or scoop me up with greedy bills 
Like insatiable fowls, burroiving in the farm¬ 

Seeking ever frantically to fill that void 
which cannot be. 

Up, onto broad moving backs 
W hich carry me out into the daylight. 

Into the sunlight, 

(Conthiued on Page 25) 

V the same and yet not the same. 
xV still pitifully weak, but that same 
vaktiess he had made 
eie him. 

u contrived himself monsters of stone 
! d wood and steel, 

of wondrous shapes and ingenuity, 
li with no mind 
'll pose 
il^e man 

ink weakling had set himself upon a 

tide the whole world to bow the knee, 
(■ were subject unto him. 
h no mercy, no respect, 
le sleeping dead were not free from 
1. molestations. 

wowed underneath my shroud 

And tore me from my resting place. 

At first not grasping and selfish 
Rut shipping and breaking the skin from my 

d o warm his little hearth and cook his food, 
Theti greedy as only man can be 
Wishing to pile up and hoard that which he 
cannot use. 

Or save it for a rainy day. 

When none can say that he, poor fool. 

May live to see the sunrise. 

Grasping, grasping, 



A T.ARGARKI' sft tlic hcavv-hlleil 
[Viper s;K'k iliui n on the step and, 
w ith her tree hand, tiirneii the rusted 
kiU'h until it caught and tlie door 
T-.iied a crack. I’icking up the hag 
■ ij^ain and clutching tighter tlie over¬ 
night bag in her other haiul, she kickeil 
tile iloor the rest of the wav open and 
unit in. -A streak of fading light la\ 
acr<i,->^ the wooden floor, hut when she 
<hut the door behind her with her el- 
hou, it u ent awa\ , leai ing the nar¬ 
row h.all dim. It hadn’t changed at 
.ill. Somehow, e\en after one night’s 
absence, she had e.xpccted some small 
thing to he different. But it was the 
s<ame. She looked up the long flight of 
stair> that twisted back and forth to 
the third floor and sighed. 

“Mrs. Townseiulf” The loicc be¬ 
hind her sounded sharplv and Mar¬ 
garet’s fingers tightened on the paper 
bag. .Miss Jones! .Miss Jones wanted 
the rent. .Miss Jones wanted to tell 
her not to use so much gas. .Miss Jones 
wanted to tell her to close the win¬ 
dows after 9 p.m. or the pipes would 
burst. She turned and faced the short, 
plump woman standing a few feet 
awav from her in the doorway of her 


“.Mrs. 'rownsend,” she repeated, and 
tn'ik a step forward, “I feel it my duty 
—now I don’t want you to get me 
wrong. I know you and jour husband 
are new tenants and don’t know how 
things are done around here—but, I 
feel it my duty to the rest of the ten¬ 
ants as landlady to tell you that .Mr. 
'I ownsend is. causing no end of dis- 
turbame at the most umrodlj' hours of 
the night.” 

ii T > 'i'i 

1 in . . . 

“Now, I wouldn’t saj' anything if 
it onlj' h.appencd once in a while, but 
I'ou’ve been living here for four weeks 
now, ami I could count on one hand 
the nights he’s come in before two and 
hasn’t stumbled up those steps. I ad¬ 
vise you to do something about it.” 

She turned then and clicked the door 
shut behiml her. Margaret’s face was 
motionless anti she stood for a few sec¬ 
onds, her eyes half-closed, and looked 
at the wall. 'Fhen she hoisted the paper 
bag high in the bend of her arm and 
started slowly up the stairs. 

So it had happened again. She had 
known it would. She had been wait¬ 
ing for it. She wasn’t surprised. It had 
happened again just as it had happened 
in all the other places where they had 
lived in the past three years. She could 
average now just how long it took for 
the Miss Jonses to mention it. Some of 
them waited awhile and even then were 
timid about telling her. Others were 
cjuicker and showed no compunction in 
asking them to leave. But none of them 
hail ever approached Al. 'Fhey had 
never dared. It was she who listened 
to them first and then later told Al they 
were moving again. 

Margaret was at the top of the stair¬ 
case now and she set the bag down on 
the floor and opened the door of the 
apartment with the key she took from 
her purse. Inside, the small living room 
was dark and she crossed to a lamp and 
switched it on. Then she remembered 
the bag in the hall and, getting it, she 
took it to the kitchenette and began 
taking out the canned goods she had 
just bought and putting them on the 
shelf. There were several bottle caps 
in the sink and she scooped them up 
and threw them in the wastebasket. She 
took the dirty towel from the rack and 
replaced it with a clean one. Then she 
went back into the living room. There 
were cigarette ashes on the rug and she 
started to brush them away with the toe 
of her shoe when she saw the newspaper 
spread out on the floor and the soiled 
shirt draped over the back of the chair. 
Mess, mess, mess! All the time! She 
picked them up and went into the small 
bedroom. Everything was in disorder. 
The bed was as he had left it when 
he got up. An empty pack of cigarettes 
lay in the middle of the floor and 
clothes were heaped in the corner. Hon¬ 
estly! If she wasn’t there every min¬ 
ute to pick up after him! Margaret 
sighed and started to make the bed. 

He hadn’t been like this when they 
were first married. No, he hadn’t! 
When had it started.? She tried to re¬ 
member, but couldn’t. Five years is 
a long time to think back over and try 
to recollect just where one thing ended 
and another began. But she remem¬ 
bered that at first it hadn’t bothered 
her. Men have to drink once in a while, 
don’t they.? Then she remembered the 
night a little over three years ago when 



Ilf liadii’t come home at six as usual 
for supper. She had waited and waited, 
^ and then, at seven, had reheated tlie 
food and waited some more. Finally, 
’ she had gone to bed. It was sometime 
, much later that she had heard his un- 
, certain steps ami sat upright in bed aiul 
' seen him standing over her. 

“.‘\1! '^'ou’re drunk! ’\’ou’re drunk 
again! ” 

“'i'ou know whatf” 'I'he words had 
been slurred, “"^'ou know whatr I’m 
unreliable.” He had rocked against the 
j edge of the bed. “Did you know that, 
j Margaretr I’m unreliable!” 
f ''Al, what are you talking aboutf” 



She was out of bed now and trying 
to make him sit ilown. 

“’Fhey can get along without me. 
’I'hat’s what they said!” 

She had pushed him down on the 
edge of the bed and had started to take 
off his shoes. 

“Shut up. Shut up,” she saiil. 
‘AOu’re drunk.” 

“ I'he Journal doesn’t neeil me ain- 
more. I’ve lost m\ joh.” 

Somehow she hatl managed to get 
him into bed. He hatl tried after 
to find a job on some other newspaper. 
Hut the ones he had found, he h;ul lost 
in two or three months. 'That was when 
.Margaret had taken part-time work at 
the little hardware store down on State 

Street. Just until .Al finds something 
else, she told herselt. I hen she 
had started working full-time, and 
after a while, .\l had stopjied looking. 

.Margaret finished smoothing the bed- and emptied an over-full .isb- 
tr.iy into the wastebasket. I'hen she 

turned and surve\ed the room. Well, 
it better than it had heen. Going 
again into the living room, she jiicked 
up the oicrnight hag and, stop|iiiui; to 
straighten a lampshade, she went back 
into tile beilroom. She laid the suitcase 
down on the hed and clicked it open. It 
W.IS surprising how much she h;id 
needed to t.ike, e\en to spend nieri U 
one night awa\ from home. Her sister 
' (ioiilitiuej on 



H\ W alter Hciitoii 
.V. Knopf 

T T \\ ING ONCE known love, one 
thm can tiiul pleasure in things 
E at reiniiul him of it. On this account, 
W'.Eiter lEnton’s short hut prolouiul 
->k of poems commemls itself to the 
!■- ailer. 

Poet> have sung of the passions and 
ec>tacie> of lo\e for so long that one 
>ometimes begins to wonder if every¬ 
thing that could be said about it hasn’t 
already been said. I'hen a book like 
77;/.; Is .\I\ Beloved comes along that 
seems to stand head and shoulders above 
’>ther yvriting about the same theme, 
and one begins to think that perhaps 
the subject has no limits at all. 

d'hese poems cannot possibly be 
taken lightly or arbitrarily. They are 
yvritten by a modern man who writes 
in a modern yvav, and one has the 
feeling that .Mr. Benton has succeeded 
C!)mpletelv in saying yvhat he wanted 
tc say, a compliment that is high in¬ 

.Actually, I feel quite helpless trying 
to comment on something that is its own 
best Commendation. I am tempted to 
qiu)te it at length, but space and cop\'- 
rights dll not permit that; nevertheless, 
I think that a few excerpts should be 
give/i to show mtire clearly what an ex- 
< ■ llent job .Mr. Benton has done. 

d'he poems are arranged in the form 
of a diary, and a story runs faintly 
through the background now and then. 
'I'he opening entry starts: 

“Becfitise hate is legislated . . . writ¬ 
ten int't the frimer and the testa- 
ment, . . . 

Became our da\ !• of time^ of 
houn — 


. . . and black tinieless night sucks 
us in like quicksatid, receives us totally 
—without a raincheck . . . key to 
heaven or the last long look 

I need \our love more than ever 
now . . . 

Because slow negative death withers 
the world—and only yes can turn the 
tide ...” 

'Fhen, in the next few entries, the 
“beloy'ed” is described and similied. It 
is almost useless, however, because, as 
the poet says: 

“. . . Compliments become you as 
tinsel becomes a tall snow covered cedar 
in a mountain cedar wood.” 

But he tries anyway, eulogizing her 

“Often I have watched your lips 
shape words . . . and your tongue- 
nudge them out like small birds not 
wholly certain of their wings.” 

He tells of their love making in 
passionate and heartfelt verse. Every 
little trait and characteristic, no mat¬ 
ter how small, becomes something 
more to love. Somehow, vaguely, one 
learns that there will be a parting; in 
the background floats the hazy identifi¬ 
cations of war. The lovers part, and 
he laments: 

“When a star fallsy / shall think of 

fVhen the moon is new, 1 shall think 
of you. 


T1 hen a bird flics into my window, 
■w'hen a leaf falls before me . . . 

—I shall wish for you.” 

After a period of time, one .sees him 
going to meet her again. She does 
not keep the appointment, however, and 
he is left only with memories. Through 
his brain run the scenes of their past: 

“I have looked too long upon you, 
too long . . . and with so much love that 
strangers can see you in my face—as 
the sun and vivid colors leave an after¬ 
image in the eyes.” 

These poems are direct and free, 
full of life and remembered passion, 
They are at times reminiscent of the 
Song of Songs, only they have the dis¬ 
tinct qualit}’ of allowing the reader to 
connect them with himself. Different 
passages in this book will appeal to 
different people. This, I think, is be¬ 
cause of the fact that these verses 
are remarkably applicable to experience. 
One of the main tasks of the artist is 
to portray the feeling that many peo¬ 
ple experience but that few can ex¬ 
press. Mr. Benton succeeds amazing¬ 
ly well in this respect. 

'riiis Is My Beloved is profuse with 
splendid word pictures such as the fol¬ 

“... A star breaks, arcs down the 
night—like God striking a match across 
the cathedral ceilingfl^ 

“Night was all around me and the 
stars pecked at it ivith fierce acetylene 
silver beaks.^^ 

William Rose Benet, writing of this 
book, saitl: 

“Never before has the delight and 
wonder experienced in young love in 
which is implicit physical discovery, 
been conveyed with such touching hon¬ 
esty or with rhapsody so involving un¬ 
conscious pathos. Those who seek to 
drag any honest writing through the 
gutters of their own minds will do the 


same with this. Those who are not 
afraid of the strange miracle of life 
will understand this brave verse.” 

By Robert Loomis 



/^LAUDE WAS A little drunk when 
he climhed on the bus. He didn’t 
feel it until he started to get on and 
then he felt light-headed and a little 
bit mean. He felt both at the same 
time and was thinking very hard as he 
walked down through the aisle, touch- 
ino- the backs of the seats with his 


hands. He would be glad for the bus 
to start. It was fun to ride on a bus 
'at night, "^'ou could think so hard and 
io-o around and around in circles but 
the circles didn’t matter then because 
nothing seemed to matter on a bus. 
He loved to lean his head back against 
the sticky felt cushions and close his 
■eyes and feel the bus swaying and 
'rocking under him. Then he could 
open his eyes and there he was right 
back again with the people and he could 
see up the aisle a man smoking a cig¬ 
arette in the dark and the broad back 
of the driver and the lights on the 
highway. Sometimes he never wanted 
to get off a bus. 

He wanted to sit by the window but 
all the window seats were taken. He 
found a seat in the middle of the bus. 
There was a man sitting there by the 
window. “O.K. if I sit here?” Claude 

“Sit down, young fellow. Sure,” 
the man said, moving over. 

He moved over too fast and Claude 
did not want to sit there then. The 
man wore a dark suit and glasses and 
ilooked fat in the seat and had thin, 
grey hair. He was looking up at 
Claude, waiting for him to sit down. 
Claude sat down. 

Claude settled in the seat and leaned 
lis head hack against the cushion and 
jdoscd his eyes. He tried to think of 
foan. He had just left Joan there 
)n the platform with all those other 
people. He thought then that he should 
vave; and he sat up in the seat and 
ooked out the window'. On the plat- 
'orm were the other iieople but he did 

not see Joan. Oh, well, he thought. 
Oh, well. Oh, hell. 

He sh( )uld not have drunk so much 
at the Casino. He must have got pretty 
silly there at the Casino. She liked 
it, though. She liked to see him drink¬ 
ing because w'hen he was drinking he 
was so happy. Big-time Charlie when 
I’m tight, he thought just a big-time 

Look, Joan, he thought. He was 
talking straight at her now'. I can’t 
help it, see. I don’t mean to be like that 
but I just can’t help it. S<rmetimes 
you’re fine and I’m just crazy about 
you. 'Eou’re a fine girl and all like 
that. And you’re pretty, too. God 
knows you’re pretty. But look here a 
minute. Just listen a minute. I don’t 
like you verv much. Sometimes I’m 
craz.y about you and have lots of fun 
with you, but goddamnit I just don’t 
like you. It’s nothing personal, Joan. I 
just don’t like anybody. I can’t help 
that. I can’t help not liking anybody 
anymore. You understand, don’t you, 
Joan? Yes. That’s the girl. I'hat’s the 

He heard the motor start and opened 
his eyes. He felt the bus move under 
him. Under the lights on the platform 
he saw a woman w'ith a shawl wrapped 
around her shoulders. She looked tired 
of w'aiting. I must have nearly gone 
to sleep, Claude thought. 

Now on the street pulling out of the 
station, the bus w'as dark and he sat 
up and took out a cigarette and lit it. 
As they passed the street lights on the 
corner he could see the fat, grey¬ 
headed man looking at him. His glasses 
shone from the light. “Cigarette."” 
Claude said. 

“I'hanks. Believe I will.” The man 
sat up. He reached for the cigarette 
and touched Claude’s hand and Claude 
drew' back his hand and let the man 
have the pack. I'he man leaned over 
in his seat to light it and Claude looked 
down at the back of his thick neck as 
they passed a light on the corner. He 
handed the pack back to Claude. 

“W^here you going?” the man said. 


“Thomson ? ” 

“About seventy miles south of here.” 

“Oh, yeah,” the man said. “I’ve 
been through there. Knew' a man there 
by the 2 iame of Sprekles. Know ’im?” 

“No, r don’t.” 

“Been there for years. Big fellow. 
Sprekles. Ben Sprekles. Runs that 
Gulf place north of town.” 

“I don’t know' him.” 

“He’s been there for years. Big fel¬ 

Claude did not answ'er. He started 
to lean back and saw the man look¬ 
ing straight at him. “I have been away 
from home for a few' years,” Claude 


“I thought there was some reason 
\()u didn’t know' him.” 


They were on the road now and out 
of the citv. d'he lights of the cars that 
passed showcil figures of heads against 
the windows. Claude’s cigarette tasted 
bitter in his mouth. He dro|-)ped it on 
the floor and stepped on it and leaned 
back again in his scat. .\ breeze was 
blowing in through the window and the 
cool stream felt fresh on his face. 

(Coiil'intifJ on Pm^i- / 2 


By mm: HYMAN 




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Hern^ (S/irtsfmas 


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Telephone J-3401 
109 E. Chapel Hill St. 

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“IMa Feiiiiiie- 

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.showing licr ilisappi'oval. He hatl rec¬ 
onciled Inniself to that iu)W. He Itad 
pleased her by going into tlie ministry, 
and now he was going to live his ow'n 

Josev rinsed the last dish and put 
it on the drain hoard. He began to 
dr\ more quickly, hut she reached to 
take the towel from him. “I will fin¬ 
ish,” she said. “Go telephone Phila¬ 

“No,” he said. “I’m nearly fiti- 
ished.” Maybe she wasn’t going to 
jiout after all.. 

“When w'ould we go to Philadel¬ 
phia.?” She used to sound excited when 
she talked about big cities. But now 
she asked as though she did not really 
care. “Would it be before spring.?” 

“Oh, yes. Probably within a month.” 
He handed her the towel to wash out. 

“A month,” she said. 

“Well, aren’t you anxious to go.? T 
should think you would be after stay¬ 
ing up here all summer and fall.” He 
tried not to sound irritated. 

“I like the mountains,” she said sim¬ 
ply. “I will always remember them as 

“You meaji the time here as happy,” 
he corrected her. 

“Yes. Everything is happy except 
when you are not.” 

He put the dishes on the table. “Oh 
Josey these people just don’t cooperate. 
You know that. They haven’t been 
friendly. It’s the environment I guess.” 

“So you are going to quit.” 

He stared at her briefly. “Oh you 
don’t understand. I couldn’t make you 
understand. You’ll like Philadelphia. 
'V'ou’ve got to get some Jiew clothes 
and . . . well, get ar(;und the right 
kind of people.” 

“I have clothes, and you are enough 
people for me.” 

There she was, trying to be cute 
again! Sometimes she sounded so sim¬ 

ple. ‘A ou can’t go on wearing the 
tew things you’ve got. I want you to 
get some smart things, like the women 
wear in the cities. I’ll get mother to 
take you shopping. .After that just ob¬ 
serve things a little.” 

“I might embarrass you,” she said. 
She seemed to be looking over his shoul¬ 
der, not directly at him. 

“No, Josey, that’s not it. It’s just 
that a minister’s wife . . . Oh, I don’t 
know. You wouldn’t understand I 

*I would,” she said. “I do under¬ 
stand, Henri.” 

“I want you to be happy,” he went 
on, “and you won’t be unless you fit 
in.” No, that wasn’t the right thing 
to say. Sometimes his thoughts got com¬ 
pletely entangled. “Well,” he tried to 
sound matter-of-fact, “if you’re around 
people a lot, you’ll soon get over a 
good deal of your accent. It’s just a 
matter of catching on.” 

She brushed past him and went into 
the living room. He could tell she was 
fighting tears. “Not again,” he said 
under his breath and started after her. 
He might as well humor her. 

She was lying on the couch, sobbing. 
“Josey,” he knelt down beside her. 
“Honey, what’s the matter.?” He put 
his arms around her and sat there for 
several minutes trying to think of what 
to say. He almost never apologized for 
anything, and he had to pull out the; 
words. “Tm sorry. I didn’t mean any¬ 
thing. Sometimes I don’t know what’sl 
wrong with me. It’s just that this place‘ 
is beginning to get on my nerve, I 
guess. I don’t want to hurt you. We 
both need a change.” He waited, and 
finally she turned to him. He coukl 
see doubt and uncertainty in her face, 
but there were traces of a smile about 
her mouth, even though her eyes were 
red and swollen and there were still 
tears in them. He leaned over and 
kissed her gently on the mouth. “For¬ 
give me.?” 

She nodded and looked at him al¬ 
most as though she felt sorry for him. 




“You need a change,” she said touch¬ 
ing his cheek with her hand. The way 
she looked at him and the tone of her 
voice made him feel like a child. He 
started to take her hand, hut she got 
up and said she had something to do in 
the kitchen. His first impulse was to 
go after her, but he decided against it. 
It was better to let her alone. He’d 
walk up to the inn and phone Dr. 
Mason. He didn’t want her to hear 
him making the arrangements, and by 
the time he got back from the inn, 
she should be all right. He took his 
coat and left without telling her. 

Sometimes he just couldn’t figure her 
out, he reflected as he started up the 
road. He still loved her as much as 
ever, but at times she was such a puz¬ 
zle. She seemed to be part of a bigger 
puzzle, and he wondered if he would 
ever find the solution. Perhaps I’m try¬ 
ing too hard, he thought looking down 
at the hard, frozen ground. Perhaps 
that was it. 

It was still rather early for many 
people to be in the lobby of the inn. 
The townspeople never came up until 
evening and most of the guests slept 
late. An elderly man and woman were 
listening to the radio over in the corner, 
and the Dawson youngster was lying 
on the sofa looking at a magazine. She 
looked up as he passed. 

“Hi!” she said, d'hose Dawsons cer¬ 
tainly knew a lot about bringing up 
children. She couldn’t have been more 
than about twelve, but old enough to 
have some manners. 

“Hello,” he said and went over to 
the ’phone booth. He put in a person- 
to-person to Dr. Mason, but the op¬ 
erator said she couldn’t jjet it through 
right away. He hung up and went out 
to wait for her to call him back. He 
iiiodded to the elderly couple and sat 
down on one of the maple chairs, right 
across from where those fellows had 
ibeen sitting last night. He could almost 
;see them again as he stared at the empty 
jehairs. Well, he wouldn’t be seeing 
them much anymore. He’d forget 
diout them completely. 

The Dawson youngster came stroll¬ 
ing over and plopped herself into one 
of the chairs. “Gosh, I’m so bored,” 
she sighed. She was wearing old flan¬ 
nel slacks and a blue pull-over sweater. 
Her chest was still flat as a boy’s, he 
observed. “I’ll be glad to get back to 
school,” she was saying. 

es,” he said. If there was any¬ 
thing he couldn’t stand, it was a kid 
at that “smart” age. “\’ou had a long 
Christmas vacation, didn’t your” In 
his position, he at least had to be civil. 
Now she was just staring at him. He 
wished the call would come through. 
He didn’t want to be gone too long. 

o to 

“Are you going to be going to high 
school soon?” he asked. 

“^’es, next fall. 'I'o junior high. 
The kids say it’s a lot harder, but I 
don’t care.” 

Maybe he should have told Josey 
where he was going, he thought. 

“Besides, I had a tutor last summer.” 
She had a way of fidgeting about when 
she talked. She kept knocking her one 
foot against the wood part of the chair. 
What was the matter with that op¬ 

“Betcha’ don’t know what 1 took! 
French!” She sounded as though she 
had been praised many times for this 
accomplishment. “.And I can talk it 
some too! Not like your wife, though. 
I bet she can talk it real fast!” 

“AY'S, she can.” The phone still 
hadn’t rung. 

“I know some songs ami the Lord’s 
Prayer in French. Do you know it in 
French, the Lord’s Prayer?” 

He walked over to the window and 
stood staring out. People talked about 
the beautiful view, but it seemed to 
be just a mass of white and gray. He 
heard the shrill yoice chattering on. 
W’hy didn’t she be quiet! Did he knou’ 
the Lord’s Prayer in French! He 
glanced oyer at the couple by the radio. 
They didn’t seem to be noticing. 

“I was going to come down to let 
(Coiitiiiiieil on Next Pa\^e) 






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(Coiit 'iinicd from Page dj) 

\()ur wife liear some of tlie songs, but 
Mother wouldn’t let me.” 

He turned and started to ask her 
why, hut thought better of it. 

“I saw those pictures in Life Maga¬ 
zine a long time ago—about those 
French bathing suits. Detes your wife 
have one of them? Mother says no¬ 
body decent would wear one!” 

He had the same feeling he had had 
the night before, and it was all he 
could do to keep himself from slapping 
her face. H'hat would be a fine parting 
gesture for a minister. Give them 
something more to talk about. He stared 
at her for a minute and then said sim¬ 
ply. “No, my wife is different. I must 
see about my long distance call now.” 
His pulse was throbbing in his neck as 
he closed the door of the booth, and 
he felt foolish to have said anything to 
her. He should be able to overlook 
things like that. 

He dialed for the operator. “Op¬ 
erator?” he said when he heard her 
answer. “What happened to my call 
to Philadelphia? Did you forget about 

“No sir, I’m having trouble get¬ 
ting through to Philadelphia.” 

Out of the corner of his eye he saw 
the Dawson youngster approaching. 
“Well, keep trying,” he said to the 
operator. “Keep trying.” 

Someone called from outside just 
then, and the Dawson youngster ran 
out to them screaming with laughter. 
He heard them say something about ice 
skating, and he started to pick up the 
receiver again. Perhaps he’d better wait, 
ff'he operator was probably trying, and 
she had sounded rather annoyed with 

Do I know the Lord’s Prayer in 
French, he thought and almost laughed. 
Silliest thing I ever heard of! He 
could still hear the brittle laughter 
growing fainter from outside. 





(Continiied fro7n Page 17) 

llnto the maws of xinquenched fires, 
Burnhig my body, 

\^Destro\big my substance, 

Castbig m\ dead ashes upon the face of 
the earth 

Which }nan calls his own. 

I am coal. 

,/ wage my war against mankind. 

Not ^uith trappings of battle and strife 
and might. 

With clanging armor and shout of con- 

But as the spider waits patiently in her 

Knoiving innately with ageless wisdom 
The fix will come of his own accord. 
^For even as the candle draws the -moth 
into his flame 
ertain destruction. 

So is man drawn by lust of power and 
the things 

Which act to make that dream come 
i true. 

fo some I am merciful, 

^Bringing a swift and sudden end of 
broken bodies and crushed limbs, 
Prinding the spark of life 
Beneath my charred heel. 

But ere they go they see my vengeance 
! all. 

jSVr It in a fleeting instant 
ids I snap their puny stays 

I Like feeble branches crushing in the 

')r blow 7ny foul breath in their faces 
Leaving their bodies, bare shells, bleak 
and ruined in my wake. 

')thers ynust wait the end of hacking 

dnd stooped frame. 

Spitting up gobs of blackish phlegm 
from sunken chests. 

Holding aching backs. 

Nursing rotted bones and vowing. 
Another month, another year, and I 
shall take ?ny rest. 

1 et even in death I have my glory. 
File dull smoke of 7ny passing 
Haiigs o’er their cities as a pall of 

Look, even 7iow, you see 7ne in their 
g7-i77iy faces. 

Hear the whistling rattle of aiiguished 

Gasped into wasted lungs. 

Look I Look! JVh ere is your all-pow¬ 
erful man? 

here is your world conqueror? 
Where is he, that all may beiid the 
k7iee and worship hbn. 

While I laugh? 

I laugh, Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha. 
For vengea7ice I have. 

Aye, I a77i coal. 

Do you k7iow 77ie? 

I a7/1 your friend. 

/ visit you first of a cool spicy evenbig 
in fall, 

1 71 your parlor where I leap and frolic 

Chuckle arid glow, 

Arid war-rn your spirit and body with 
my presence. 

I come often and then more often. 

And many a happy evening we spend 

Sometimes you have no need of me and 
1 am gone. 

You sit in your house and read your 

You read of the strike in the steel mills. 

And the President’s speech and the Mar¬ 
ket Reports and some heads, and 
a few sub-heads and 

Fhen you read the little box down in 
the lower r-ight corner- 

Where it says ‘AVeather Report.” 

While you read you puff out your lips 

A rid rub your chin which is beginning 
to br-istle 

Because the water wasn’t quite hot this 
' rnor-riing and a man can’t shave 
close in cold ivater, can he? 

And say, ‘Ahn-rn, hm-rn.” 

You reach over and pick up the phone 

Dial PItkins 1300 and say, ^LVIr. 

Jf eat her man says snow. Send some 

Coal.” That’s me. 

Duke University Stores 

Owned and operated for your convenience 
by Duke University 

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The Haberdashery 





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-AimI Off He Goes- 

(CoiiliimeJ from Page H ) 

going to take lessons from Alice B. 
'I'oklas on the Steinway . . . Oh, you 

Bentley Williams stnule on throu<i:h 
his “half-deserted bridle paths” toward 
supper. It sometimes troubled him that 
his mind would not behave. When he 
was trying to be serious, his mind went 
cavorting off on some fantastic by-path 
and he found himself mocking what 
he thought was beautiful because he was 
afraid of it. 

The moon ... a piece of a moon 
. . . something it was like a . . . was 
it new or waning? The thought-thin 
crescent of the dying moon. Like a 
. . . like the thumbnail paring of a 
god . . . yes, the stars are dandruff and 
the moon a thumbnail paring of a sjod 
on the deepening velvet of the evcin^' 
. . . Bastard! Bastard! 

The path he followed was almost 
nonexistent. It was overgrown with 
weeds and long forgotten. He dinibted 
that anyone ever used it at all now. He 
had found it quite by accident only a 
month ago. It led toward the rear of 
the park, to that part which until re¬ 
cently had been the old Walker estate. 

It seemed odd that no one had found 
the spot since the estate was sold to the 
city to enlarge the park. Someone must 
surely have noticed the “garden” if 
the land had been surveyed. It was 
not more than ten yards from the road¬ 
way. But then, the branches of the 
oaks did interweave and hung ver\' low, 
and the weeds grew high on the slope; 
so that the tiny fish pond and rock gar¬ 
den were completel)' hidden from a dis¬ 
tance of a few feet. 

Bentley stood looking down into the 
empty pond. A thick layer of oak 
leaves covered the cement bottom. The 
water was long since gone. No water, 
. . . no fish ... of course, no mermaid; 
. . . They don’t live in abandoned gold¬ 
fish ponds. Mermaids sing in the wih 
waves of the sea—to hardier souls. 1 




do not think that they will sing, 
j Wanted: one hrst-rate muse; must be 
experienced in Beauty, serious, and able 
'to take dictation. -Apply Bentley Wil- 
lliams. Lost Garden, Lafayette Park 
“So a fool finds mirth, makes a 
thina: and then mars it, till his mood 
changes, and ofl he goes.” 

In the dying twilight he turned from 
the pond, and stooping, placed his 
books on a rock. He reached into the 
tangle of creepers and vines which cov¬ 
ered that part of the rock garden which 
weeds could not claim. He pulled the 
vines aside and brushed away the dead 
leaves. He alreadv knew the words 
which were chiseled on the marble 
tablet, so that he did not h.ive to strain 
his eyes to see them: 

“In memory of .Alan Bain Walker 

Who built this little garden. 

.After a long and hopeless illness, 
he died 

.At sixteen years of age. .A highly 
gifted boy. 

He loveil life, and he loved flow¬ 

He let go ot the vines, took his 
books, and stood up. Here was another 
whose heart must have drunk wine. 
.Vlaybe he did not write or paint, but 
he did build a garden. 

Bentley stalked stiffly up the trail to 
the road. He had done nothing . . . not 
a garden . . . not a word ... a little 
talent perhaps, but no genius. 'I'he 
words had .ill been used before, and 
^ill the beautiful phrases were other 
people’s children. Bastard! 

He looked up again at the sky. The 
jihr.ase which came to his mind was 
lis own. He kicked a pebble down the 
foad ahead of him. .A pathetic fallac)'. 
'He could label it, but knowing what 
:t was did not make him feel any bet- 
|er. “So a fool finds mirth” ... a 
jiiuse without a brain in her head . . . 
[i pathetic fellow, see.? . . . The day 
'urned purple zuith rage and collapsed 
H'lund the Methodist (Ihurcli. 

Hats Off... 


In past years we have been proud to serve the Duke 
Students. In doing so we feel we have had a small part 
in aiding you to realize your high hopes for the future. 

It is our desire to continue to serve you now and in 
the years to come. 



All gather for good meals 
in the pleasant atmos¬ 
phere of 


Just off 

Woman’s College Campus 

H’he man who keeps looking at the 
stars is bound to stumble sooner or 

I'he old women in the church sat 
like rows of wilted, faded bouc]uets. 

H'he vastness ot indifference. 

Vi lirii You Have 
Vi aleli IVoiihle 


EerrelTis W alcli 

7 Watch Doctors 

108 W. Parrish St 
Opposite Silver's 




-iMaii On Bridge- 

( Coiuimit'J from Pctge 19) 

in Oswfgo li;ul asked A1 up too, but he 
had not wanted to go. She took out a 
niglitgown and shook it out and then 
began to refold it. Site would unpack 
first and then h.x supper for herself. 

Then she would sit and wait for A1 to 
come home and pray that he would be 
quiet. Maybe he would come home 
early tonight. Maybe he had missed 

She took a hairbrush from the upper 
compartment and crossed over to the 
dresser. Putting it down, she looked 
in the mirror for a moment. Her eyes 
looked dark and her skin was drained 
of color. Site put her hand to her 
face. .Maybe she was just tired. Her 
hand slipped down to the top of the 
dresser and she started to rearrange 
things. The lipstick belonged over here 
and the comb here and these haircurlers 
should be . . . These haircurlers! She 
picked them up, one by one, until she 
held all five of them in her hand. These 
haircurlers weren’t hers! She didn’t 
use haircurlers. Her hair was natural. 
Involuntarily, her hand went to her 
hair and she pushed a wisp of it back. 
She didn’t use haircurlers. She stood 
staring down at them for a moment and 
saw the shiny, thin metal pieces that 
looked like fish and felt the coldness 
of them. 'J'hey weren’t hers! They 
weren’t hers! She didn’t use hair¬ 

Suddenly she threw them on the 
floor. She was in the living room then 
and then she was in the hall and she 
had left the door open behind her. The 
steps creaked as she ran down them, but 
she didn’t hear them. And then she 
was outside and she was cold because 
she hadn’t brought a coat with her. 
She turned first to the left and then to 
the right and then back to the left again 
and started up the street fast, fast, fast. 
It was dark now and a thin drizzle of 
rain sifted down. She walked close 
to the inside of the walk and listened to 

her heels clicking on the cement, click¬ 
ing, clicking on the wet cement. The 
delicatessen was still open and she 
looked in the window as she passed by, 
and saw the little round balls of oranges 
and the fat hunk of baloney hanging 
from a hook. Ugl}', ugly baloney! Not- 
so-good baloney with the fringe on the 
top and when the sparrows come back 
to () range Blossom Lane . . . She was 
out of the square of light from the 
store now and on the corner where the 
signpost said “J-'ty” in one direction and 
“Maple” in the other. Jay and Maple. 
.Maple and Jay. She heard music from 
somewhere playing something, and she 
turned and started up Jay Street. 

She walked for a long time. For a 
while she neither thought of anything 
nor felt anything. It was as if there 
were a huge rock on her chest, tO( 
heavy for her to move. And then one 
single, coherent thought came and re¬ 
peated itself over and over. She hadj 
to do something. She stopped on the 
curb at an intersection and watched 
the light change from green to red anq 
back to green. She had to do something 
But still the rock was there and she 
could feel nothing. Stepping off the 
curb, she crossed the street and startec 
up the incline that led to the Clariss; 
Street bridge. 

She stopped halfway across ane 
leaned against the iron railing. It wa: 
cold and wet. She could see the light 
of the city, indistinct and blurred in th( 
mist. The buildings in the distanci 
were bulky shadows and only the eagL 
on top of the Times Building was dis 
tinguishable. She fastened her eyes oi 
it and shivered. She heard the nimbi 
of a train somewhere and then sh 
heard the rush of the water far be 
low. She looked down at the river am 
it was black and roaring and movin'; t 
'Fhe blackness was deep and the roar i 
ing and the moving never stopped. 
fog rolled up and out of it and tha 
seemed to roar and move too. Sh 
stared down and her eyes slowly opene 
and closed. 'Fhe water would be sof 




'I'lie water was going far away. She 
had to do something. 

“Thinking about jumping.^” The 
voice behind her was low' and close. 
Margaret gripped the railing and turned 
around quickly. It was a man she had 
never seen before, wearing a tan rain¬ 
coat and a hat with the brim turned 
down to keep off the rain. She couldn’t 
kee his face very W'ell, but she knew he 
was smiling. 

“Jumpingr” she repeated. “Jump- 

“^’fs,” he chuckled, “^"ou looked as 

you were about to leap right over 
he railing and drow'n all your trou- 
iles in a long drink of the Genesee.” 

He laughed and walked on. 

Jumping! He had said she had 
ooked as if she were thinking about 
limping! She turned back toward the 
'ailinsr and looked down at the water 
Tain. It was roaring and moving. But 
t was cold! It was cold! 'I'hen sud- 
Icnly the rock lifted from her chest 

and she began to feel again. It was 
cold and she would never know the 
warmth of A1 again. Never, never 
know the warmth, the warmth of A1 

Suddenly she turned and ran. She 
ran back down the incline and across 
the intersection and up Jay Street. She 
would have to put A1 to bed when he 
came home. She would have to tell 
him tomorrow that they were moving 

“. . . and I do wish I could have 
read it, for I know your sediments.” 

'I'he author writes it down—that’s 
the only difference. 

“Earnest” Hemingway. 

“Ice Cream Specialists” 



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Phone F-4841 



(Conliniied from Pogr IS) 
soul, as tii.'tint.'il b\’ minimum require¬ 
ments, is contirmed. Again, if such 
is tlie case—if there is a spiritual cle¬ 
ment in the human personalit)' (as 
Rhine is (]uick to maintain)—then 
there is a theoretical possibility of some 
sort of life after death. 

“If research has yielded nothing, if 
the L.S.]’. tests had produced only 
chance data, it would be much more 
difficult indeed to entertain the con¬ 
cept of a spiritual world of surviving 

In a way these are oddly conS(ding 
words, but Rhine would be the first to 
admit that there is a vast research prob¬ 
lem still ahead for psychology. But 
at least he seems supremely confident 
that the important beginnings are here. 

In an article in Harper^s, Dr. Ernest 
Hunter Wright adds, concerning 
E.S.P.: “If what we are hinting at here 
should turn out to be true, it is hardly 
too much to say that we may be travel¬ 
ing toward a revolution in the realm 
of mind, more or less comparable to 
the revolution effected by Copernicus in 
the universe of matter.” 

Julian Huxley, the biologist, made 
the folhjwing assertion: “There are 
other faculties, the bare existence of 
which is as yet scarcely established; and 
these too might be developed until they 
were as commonly distributed as, say, 
musical or mathematical gifts are to¬ 
day. I refer to telepathy and other 
extra-sensory activities of the mind, 
which the work of Rhine and others 
is now forcing into scientific recogni¬ 

With such works bounding about in 
one’s mind (extrasensetry), one rises 
from Dr. Rhine’s psychological chair 
and leaves, wondering if it is all propa¬ 
ganda, or—thinking vaguely of peo¬ 
ple like Kepler and Brahe—pondering 
the fact that there might really be 
something new under the sun. 


















124 W. Parrish 



-The Bus Kide- 

(Cont'ntiieJ from Page 21) 

'J'he m;ui was talking. “See the news 

Claude opened his e)’es. “News? 
What news?” 

“Newspaper, I mean.” 


“They’re going to have trouble with 
those Russians sure’n hell.” 

Claude did not answer. 

“I don’t know. Looks like those 
fools don’t know what they’re doing. 
Cjit through with one war and ready 
;o fight another one. Same way after 
:he last war. Everybody said that was 
:he last war. Crap. That’s all I gotta 

Claude leaned his head back against 
he cushion with his eyes open. He saw 
he white glare on the windshield past 
he broad back of the driver and he 
vatched the <rlare tjet brijihter and 
brighter and then he heard the rush- 
ng sound of the car going past and 
t was all dark again. 

“Some fellow—I was reading this 
ditorial—and this fellow was talking 
bout Russia and he wants to go easy 
n ’em. Wants to go easy on ’em. Wants 
o give’m the damned atomic bomb, I 
aiess. I guess he just wants to give’m 
he damn bomb and be nice about it. 
)amn fool, that’s all I gotta say. I 
on’t trust the red bastards. 'Ehey’ll stick 

knife in your back. 'Ehat’s what 
ley’rc doing. I don’t trust them as 
ar as I can spit. 'J'his has been com- 
ig on a long time now. lieen ex- 
jecting it myself. Might as well 
|Ck ’em and get it over. Gonna have 
1 do it anyhow. Might as well go 
.lead and get the jump on ’em. 'Ehat 
jVrnes fellow. See what he said in 
le paper?” 

' “I don’t read the papers,” Claude 
id. He wished he had not answered, 
j “Well, this Byrnes said—” 

‘I don’t give a damn what Byrnes 

“'I'hat’s what I say.” 

“And I don’t give a damn what you 
say.” 'Ehe man saw now and was 
sitting up. 

“Now, look,” the man said roughly. 

“Shut up. Dry up. Goddamn you, 
dry up.” 

“Listen, young fellow.” 

“Don’t young fellow me, damn you. 
’’I’ou’re a pretty rough joe, aren’t you? 
You want to go to war. You’re a pretty 
rough joe, I guess. Well, who’s going 
to fight your war for you? Who’s 
going to fight }'our goddamn war?” 

“I didn’t mean . . . look, now.” 

‘D'ou didn’t mean. 'J'hen shut up, 
will you? Just shut uji.” Claude felt 
it loosen now. 

“O.K., buddy, just settle down.” 

“O.K. Shut up. Just shut up.” 

Claude leaned back again and closed 
his eyes. He could feel his heart bump¬ 

ing inside him and could feel the bus 
swaying under him and could feel the 
fresh breeze in his face. He could hear 
the quiet roaring of the motor and 
with his eyes closed could see the liijht 
of the car coming. He heard the car 
rush past. He felt the man move closer 
against the window away from him. 

W’hen the bus stopped in Thomson, 
Claude w'oke up. His neck was stiff and 
there was a bad taste in his mouth. 'Ehe 
man next to him w'as gone. He went in 
the bus station and asked for a cu|i 
of coffee. He drank the coffee with¬ 
out cream or sugar and it was bitter 
and hot. 

On the way home his head cleared 
a little but it still felt heavy and slug¬ 
gish. 'Eomorrow he w'ould get up early 
and go in sw'imming. I’ll feel much 
better in the morning, he thought. I’ll 
feel much better in the morning. 


For Many Years . . . 

We have had the pleasure and privilege of serving 
the University and its student body ... an asso¬ 
ciation we cherish more and more with each passing 






• Watches 

• Diamonds 

• Jewelry 


If It’s From Hopper’s It’s 

H o p p E R ’ s i; 

217 W. Main Street 
Durham, N. C. 





Insurers for 



The Solution To Your 
Gift Problem! 




IO 8 V 2 Orange St. 

For Your Health 
For Your Pleasure 
For Your Fun 

Bring Your Dates 

Fraternity Leagues 




To The 

111 W. Main St. 

Serving Hours 
Fountain Hours 
7:45 A.M.-5:30 P.M. 


Opposite Post Office 
Phone R-6271 for Reservations 






Ckristmas surprise is a Wintra 

coat made of BONMOUTON* tlie 
luxurious New Era fur. No otlier 
mouton can compare witli 
BONMOUTON’s fabulously rick 
slieen. And tke Wi'nira label means 
tailored perfection ri^kt down to 
its lining of fine Narco Rayon. 
At better stores everywkere. But p 
your order now. Tke very 
ckoiceness of \('inira coats 
makes tkem scarce. Styled ky 
Town and Country Club Furs, Ii 


Kilinjion di|ed laiiili 

* rradt'tnarl^ 

product of Motly Iiic, 




o// your - 
gift bundles with these 
cheery cartons of 
Christmas Chesterfields 
.. .They Satisfy. 

Copyrighc 1946. LtocETT & Myers Tobacco Co. 

lUduOdtMM . U<<> 

^ Your'T-ZONe' ^ 
will you... 

^ T FOR. TASTE... 

Thats your proving (ground 
{or atf\y ci<iareite. See 
If Camels dont 
^ suit your'T-ZONE' 


..Counter > 


the Differences in 
Cigarette Quality 

...and notv the demand for Camels 
— always great 

— is greater than ever in history. 

D uring the war shortage of cigarettes 
. . . that’s when your “T-Zone” was 
really working overtime. 

That’s when millions of people found that 
their “T-Zone” gave a happy okay to the 
rich, full flavor and the cool mildness of 
Camel’s superb blend of choice tobaccos. 

And today more people are asking for 
Camels than ever before in history. But, no 
matter how great the demand: 

We do not tamper with Camel quality. We 
use only choice tobaccos, properly aged, and 
blended in the time-honored Camel way! 

Accordi/ig fo a rece/it 

More Doctors 
SMOKE Camels 

t/ian any other cigarette 

Doctors too smoke for pleasure. 
And when three independent 
research organizations asked 
11.3,.597 doctors—What cigarette 
do you smoke, Doctor'.'' — t/ie 
brand named most was Camel! 

V- :yi 

R. J. Reynolds Tobacco Company, Winston-Salei 

This Month 

Is you Lilie It... 

till SNITGER, whose “Pattern of the 
^ Moth” appeared in the October Archive, 
as another story in this issue. “Late in No¬ 
ember” is perhaps one of the longest stories 
ver published in this magazine. The quality 
f the writing only reinforces Bill’s reputa- 
on as one of Duke’s outstanding writers, 
he two excellent illustrations were done by 
ob Parks, capable successor to Larry Coe, 
ho graduated last semester. 

Now for something entirely different. A 
■eek or so ago, Tom Greet dropped into the 
ffice and handed us a story, “Greeny,” which 
|e confessed was a little “unusual” but whicli 
|e nevertheless hoped we could use. We agree 
'ith him in the first case and are almost over¬ 
helming in our approbation in the second 
ise. Read it for yourself and see. By the 
av, the appropriate illustration was done 
V Clarence Brown. 

.‘\n amusing incident in the big city is 
arrated by Pat Way in her “Luck for You.” 
i'ritten in a refreshing style, this story is 
It’s first contribution to the Archive. Pat 
I'imberly did the illustrating. 

llitti Ihe Bards... 

pWO Oh' THE poems on the Poetry Page, 
Lewis Buck’s “Muse No. 10” and Donald 
"hompson’s “King Nicotine,” have an es- 
|?cially interesting background story con- 
.‘cted with them. Lewis and 'T'hompson were 
>th in Dr. White’s poetry-writing class, and, 
hen Dr. White asked them to write an 
'ipromtu sonnet on some object in the 
)om, they both, by coincidence, chose the 
me subject. Enta Harriette Cove, Rosalie 
albren, Bev Weaver, and Bob Loomis con- 
ibuted the other j)oems on this page and 
:ose elsewliere. 

h, Oil, Orlando!... 

^IRGINL\ Woolf’s Orlando occupies the 
book reviewing limelight in this issue and 
e criticism is expertly managed by Bob 
aoniis. Bob has had several reviews in pre- 
ous issues of the .-Irchive. 

If you lllant To Be fl 
Football Hero... 

J^ARRV E. BEACDOUIN, Sports Editor 
for the Chronicle, contributed our article 
this month. “No College Footlxill for My 
Kid” expounds some ideas that Harry has 
been mulling o\er in his mind for a long 
time. For the majority of people, college 
football still embodies the oP “rah, rah” 
spirit of good, clean competition. This article 
[iresents a point of view quite different from 
tlie ordinary. Perhaps you may not agree 
with some of Harry’s ideas, but we doubt 
if you can help being stimulated by them. 

Dante Out Of Hand... 

“'^REX” savs that when lie started this 
month’s cover, his original idea was to 
depict a Dante-like scene of the Inferno. The 
more he thought about it and worked on it, 
liowever, the more his original conception 
changed. The final result is what you see 
on the front. 

^^iforial Staff 

Virginia Anne Gunn, Editor 
David W. Pick, Associate Editor 

Boh Loomis and Pi-ggv Throne 

Assistant Editors 

Frank Trechsel, Art Editor 
Bi rsY John Huri.ev, Exchange Editor 
Joan .Anc.evine, Poetry Editor 


.M arion Benni i r 
Bill Styron 
J ot Di .Mona 
Cynthia Barrell 
Gordon Nazor 
Pete Wile 


Ned .Martin 
Bob Allen 
Bob Parks 
Marion Fox 
Clarence Brown- 
Bill Snitger 
Sally Bow.mall 

Sf^asiness Staff 

John Patrick Dorsey, Business Manager 
Fran Hudson, Assistant Business Manager 
Dee Centner, Coed Business Manager 
Bill Bryant, Advertising Manager 
Hami*i-on Frady, Circulation Manager 


Terri Stewart 
Betty Bayi.iss 
Sara Huckle 
Margaret Frans 
Kay Lauer 
Sis Watson 
Genevieve Parks 

.Marg Colvin 
Gloria Koltinskv 
Shirley Dick 
Jane .Matthaus 
Nancy Rousseau 
Jane Scarborough 
Sandy Jones 

Typists: Nancy Kester, Slum Baird, 
Charm IAN Scates ■ 

HE ARCHIVE, February, 1947 



Consider Those Others 

l^\ Helen Mercner 

III KviP-ipo ;uul Asia, 400,000 Stu- 
v! ius ni*w arc combatting not only a 
text book scarciti ami building sliortagc, 
but malnutrition, hunger and disease in 
their struggle' tor individual advance- 
nii nt and tor national rehabilitation, 
r ■ allev iate these conditions, the World 
Student Service Fund this year set its 
::oal at one million dollars to be ex¬ 
pended in direct relief for students and 
professors on an international, inter¬ 
racial, non-sectarian, and non-political 

.-\s its share in this globabl relief pro¬ 
gram, Duke Universitv will seek to 
raise SS,0il0 for WSSF aid to he used 
directlv for the Charles University of 
Prague with a minor percentage allo¬ 
cated to general WSSF work. The 
Duke Plan, conceived by the Student 
Religious Council, establishes a bond 
between the students of two nations, 
resulting in a warmer and more per¬ 
sonal interest for both donor and re¬ 
ceiver. Because of the democratic ideal 
of the Czechoslovak people and repub¬ 
lic, the University in Prague was chosen. 
Here, in this college community simi¬ 
lar to Duke in size and organization. 

students are reconstructing their aca¬ 
demic life in converted hostels. 

Founded in 1348, the University in 
1934-35 had 4,600 students enrolled 
in the school of law; 3,109, Medicine; 
1,383, Philosophy; 1,362, liberal arts, 
and 160, Theology. Now 54,000 Uni¬ 
versity students are enrolled, compared 
to the prewar number of 21,000 and to 
43,000 of last year. The increase in 
students has not been met with a cor¬ 
responding expansion in living quarters 
and study materials. The library, nine 
feet wide by nine feet long, contains 
only a few German text books which 
were left after the systematic robbing in 
1939. Map collections, scientific books 
and films were destroyed or transported 
and the archives of the Senate, highest 
university authority in Prague, were 
burned. Under the Nazi regime, stu¬ 
dents were forbidden to continue in¬ 
tellectual studies and were barred from 
all scientific libraries. 

A report of 1944 prepared by the 
British International Student Service 
states that intellectual life had ceased: 
cultural institutions, libraries, scientific 
institutes and high schools had been 

closed. Quoting from the Volkhlu 
Beobachter, it adds the German coir 
ment “The Czechs have a youngc 
generation which is too well-educate 
and far too .studious; we must prevei 
too large a number of their young me 
from undertaking higher studies. . . . 
Thereafter police representatives pn 
trolled lecture halls. Czech scientifi 
reviews were forbidden to quote foreig 
sources, especially French or Englisl 
Following a demonstration resultin 
from the death of a Czech student h 
the Germans, thousands of students an 
professors were arrested, massacred i 
deported. In 1942 some opportunitii 
were extended to Czech students fc 
study at Berlin, but the next year, the 
were conscripted for the German arm 
or forced labor. 

This is the heritage of Slavic studen 
of today. Theirs has been a struggl 
for freedom which did not end wit 
the cessation of hostilities, but whic 
began anew. Now they are fighting fc 
release from poverty and deprivatioi 
To foster the education of intelliger 
and thinking citizens of the Unite, 
Nations, American students may cor 
tribute to the WSSF drive beginnin 
February 16. This need is real. TI 
Duke student’s contribution is his ar 
swer to the Volkhcher Beobachter corr 


Student Supplies — Radios & Phonograph Records 
Kodaks & Photographic Supplies — Candies -• Drugs 
Tobacco — Fountain Luncheonette 
Cosmetics & Perfumes 

Open Mon.-Sat. 9:00 A.M.—11:00 P.M. 

Meredith Moore—’32 Sun. 12:00 Noon—11:00 P.M. O. G. Sawyer—’23 

THE ARCHIVE, February, 19^ 








Vol. Sixty February, 1947 No. 5 






In This Issuer 

This Mon i h 



Consider 1'hose Oihers 






Late In November. 



A Storx bx Bill Snitger 

Greeny . 



A Fantasx bx 1 . I . Greet 

The Poet’s Pa(;e 






No College F'ootball P'or Mv Kid 



An Article bx Harrx E. Beaudouin, Jr. 

Luck F'or You 



A Storx bx Pat ]Vax 

Has Your Arm Dropped Off: 



A Brief Satire bx Ned Marti?! 

A Monthly Magazine Published by the Students of Duke University 
Durham, North Carolina 

The publication of articles on controversial topics does not necessarily mean that the Editor or the Uni¬ 
versity endorses them. The names and descriptions of all characters in the fiction of this magazine are 
fictitious. Any resemblance to any person or persons is not intended and is purely coincidental. 

.Notice of entry: "Acceptance for mailing at special rate of postage provided for in Section 1103, Act of 
October 3, 1917. Authorized December 4, 1924." Entered as second-class mail matter at the 
Post Office at Durham, N. C. 

twenty-five cents a copy: one dollar, SEVEN'EV-FIVE OEM'S A YEAR 

Copyright, February, 1947, hv John Patrick Dorsey 

THE ARCHIVE, February, 1947 





''Say It With Flowers'' 

riie DiiVal Hackett ay is very simple! 

1. Phono L-9i).) 

2. IVll us reoipiont's name and address, 
d. Tell us kind of flowers desired. 

4. Tell us eard to he enclosed. 

a. Tell us vour name and box number. 

\V e will deliver your flowers, charge them, and mail you statement first of 

following month. 

Dance Decorations a Specialty 


Automatic rev'ohung crystal balls, spot bulbs in colors, flood lights, large movable spot lights for 
following dancers on the floor, or spotting singers or special entertainers, color wheels for beauti¬ 
ful and subdued lighting effects, fringes, festoonings, balloons, flags, shields and coconut palm 


117 N. Mangum St. 
(Opposite Duke Power Co.) 
Phone L-965 

Hours: 8:.‘50 A.M. till 6 P.M. 

Washington Duke Lobby 
Phone F-101—Ext.: Flower Shop 
Hours 1 P.M. till 8 P.M. 

Sat. 1 P.M. till 10 P.M. 

DuVal Hackett 





THE ARCHIVE, February, 194 

Archie Speaks 

E HEAR that a Southgate coed 
traveled over to the Hill the other 

While walking around the UNC 
rounds she happened to espy none other 
lan “Choo Choo” Justice, walking 
round just as you and I do. (Not 
oating on a halo, as one of our local 
lortswriters would have us believe.) 

Now this Dukestress had heard much 
f “Choo Choo,” that darlin’ little rim¬ 
er, and before she could check herself 
le rushed over to him and said rever- 
ntly, “Mr. Justice, could I please have 
our autograph?” 

“Choo Choo” looked down with dis- 
ain. Another pest, he must have 
Sought. But he grandly affixed his 

With that our heroine, whom we are 
ire will go down in Duke history, tore 
le paper in half before “Choo Choo’s” 
westricken gaze, and laughed: 

“Wait until Duke hears about this.” 

Duke has! ! ! 

While on the subject of South- 
gate coeds, our inside agent re¬ 
ports that her roommate must be 
having strange dreams of late. 

The other night she rolled over 
in bed, stretched her arms luxuri¬ 
ously, and—still asleep—said, “All 
I need is a little coaxing.” 

She’s been explaining that one 
ever since. 

=(: ^ 

A friend of ours hates BMOC’s. He 
has it all figured out. 

B-M-()-C spelled backwards is 

COMB. . . . 

. . . which also gets in your hair. 

=|: * 

Spring has burst upon the cam¬ 
pus rather hesitantly this year. 
Usually about this time the sun is 
already toasting the campus, and 
toasting the girl’s derrierea on 
Hanes Field (Sunbathers, that is). 

One of our favorite religion 
profs came out with a little crack¬ 
er-box philosophy concerning 
Spring, which we thought worthy 
of note: 

“In the Spring a young man’s 
fancy lightly turns to what the 
girls have been thinking about all 

* * * 

TT7E ARE glad to see that the feud 
' ' between the Duke V/’ Duchess 
and the Archive is flourishing nowa¬ 

'Ehe other day we looked down the 
Row to see a feminine writer from 
the Archive staff carrying a typew’riter. 
A sympathetic Chro7iicle man leaned 
out the door and said, 

“.A little girl like you shouldn’t be 
carrying that heavy typewriter.” 

“She might as W'ell carry it,” said a 
loyal D ’w’ D man, “she can’t do any¬ 
thing else with it.” 

Unquestionably the funniest hit of 
stuff to come out of that misfit yet . . . 
er . . . outfit, rather. Ed. 

* * * 

While walking about the cam¬ 
pus, we’ve heard many guesses as 
to my real identity. 

If any of you think you know, 
drop me a card in c/o the Archive, 
Box 4B65, together with any gripes 
or oddities you would like to see 
in print. 

Beside.s, I have to get mail some¬ 

he archive, February, 1947 




l lu pouiuliiig i>t tlu' rain on 

r . front wiiulow and the tinkling of 
tlu- ^las.sfs .is the bartender mixed the 
drink' er< ited a kind of music to which 
u.i> trrinL: to appl\ a name. He 
'I'tened carefiillv, closed his eyes, and 
t;-.e;' d the edge of his cocktail glass 
uith a stirrer. 'I'he rhythm was easy, 
p-rsuasiv.- and vet a little disturbing. 
Hut the rlnthm was all th;it was there; 
he could tiiul no melody. W hat could 
one call it: 

It's funnv, he thought, all the name¬ 

less things I’ve tried to put a name to 
during mv life. Mostly feelings, I 
guess, feelings that have no identity, no 

He put down the stirrer and glanced 
at his watch and was a little startled to 
see that it was five o’clock. Three 
hours had already gone by. 

He tried to think about the series of 
circumstances which had led him to that 
little bar on 56th Street, but they were 
fading in his memory. He realized, 
too, the futility of searching back in 

his life to find the starting point, the ■< 
moment when he had said “Yes” in¬ 
stead of “No,” or the street that had 
had no signs when he reached the end 
of it. 

We don’t stop any more, any of us, 
and figure out how we got where we' 
are, he thought. We accept the condi¬ 
tions and refuse even to see the chal¬ 
lenge. We read our lines which we 
learned before memory began, and we 
make our silly entrances and exits ac¬ 
companied by a music that has no mel¬ 
ody, no name, only rhythm. Only the 
rhythm of the rain against the windows 
in our life, and the tinkling of the 
glasses as we drink Martinis. 

Most of the stools at the bar were 
now occupied. He glanced around the 
room and wished that Vivien would ar¬ 
rive. Not that he particularly wanted 
to see her, but he was sick of the bar, 
sick of the cocktails and of the nois) 
people who surrounded him, and he 
wanted to walk in the rain. He knew 
that Vivien would come in at exactl) 
five-thirty and wondered whether he 
would be able to wait that long for her. 

The bartender, who had spent most 
of the afternoon cleaning the blue mir¬ 
ror behind the bar and was now busy 
waiting on the five-o’clock customers, 
asked him if he wanted another drink. 
He nodded, smiling at his reflection ir 
the mirror for giving in to himself sc 

He could barely hear the music oi 
the rain now above the chatter of the 
people who carried evening newspa¬ 
pers and discussed the headlines over ; 
constant stream of smoke and a stead) 
procession of cocktails. An animatec 
blonde complained bitterly that hef 
friend in the South Pacific would be 
coming back soon, now that the wa: 


THE ARCHIVE, February, 194' 

'ad been over for two months. “And 
ow,” she asked her well-dressed es- 
ort, “am I going to explain you to 
■imr” Another girl was telling an 
derly, corpulent made how a friend 
f hers in Jersey had sent F rank Fay 
miniature rabhit. She screamed in 
elight when he asked her why. 

Bill was glad it had rained all after- 
|oon: his being tight could now be ex- 
ibiincd more easily to Vivien. But he 
'■t himself that she would want to 
inow why he hadn’t gone to a movie, 
if it rained, you went to a movie. Idut 
it were not raining, Vivien consid- 
'ed it a wonderful afternoon in New 
ork just to walk around and watch 

the people coming and going, to listen 
to what she called “the voices of the 
city,” to look for new restaurants or 
cafes, or to sit in the park and think. 
.Most people found the city a means to 
an end, but Vivien insisted that it could 
be an end in itself. 

'I'he trouble is, he thought, it’s al¬ 
ways raining. 

Bill had been introduced to her over 
a year ago at this bar, and so \hvien al¬ 
ways insisted that they meet there when 
he came to New ’ihirk. He had seen 
her dozens of times during the past 
year; their affair had started alter the 


fourth time he took her to dinner. But 
there were shades to \'ivien’s character 
that always remained a puzzle to him. 

Six weeks ago she had quit her job at 
Bressen’s Rare Book Store on Seventh 
Avenue because she cl.aimeil she had 
found a new religion. .\n old woman come into the store looking for a 
book that was out of print, and after 
talking to \'ivien for less than an hour, 
she had coiuinced her ’Flu- So- 
ciet\, as \’i\ien hater told him, was her 
calling. It took her i x.acth ten min¬ 
utes to make up her miml. The next 
da\ she rejiorted to the old u'oman’s 
office to begin work. Flu- uhole busi¬ 
ness sounded strange to Bill, but since 

HE ARCHIVE, February, 1947 


'i • t!',c i.ibit questioning 
It ■' . th.-\ diiin't talk about it. 

- few things that she said, however, 
■- -:f The S.'cietv had at times aroused 
'\'S<Mi„ eur'.'sitt in him. (^nce while 
were eatinu, she suddenlv e.\- 
e'-.aned. “I think I’ve really giu on to 
S -eiit Period at lastl” His dumbfound- 
,il --\pression silenced her immediately 
.iiid she btgan to eat with renewed 
\i^or. He didn't ask her what “Silent 
}’• riod" meant and had almost forgot¬ 
ten It. Then one evening several weeks 
later thev s;tw an old man stumble out 
■f a barroom door and lurch across the 
street. \'ivien asked, “Did you sec his 
exes: He wants to be in tune with it 
all, but he doesn’t know how.” Bill 
tried for twentv minutes to get an ex¬ 
planation, but she shook her head and 
mumbled that he wouldn’t understand. 

He once asked her how' she recon¬ 
ciled her actions with him to this new 
faith, and she had stated that there w'as 
no wrong in doing anything as long as 
vou were sincere while you were doing 
it. He had laughed and said that it 
sounded like a hell of a good idea but 
might not be too healthy a doctrine if 
it were carried too far. Vivien had then 
moved over in bed and refused to speak 
to him until breakfast. 

He had often attempted to analyze 
his feelings for her—a certain sign, he 
thought, that he wasn’t in love. She 
had onlv one feature that might be 
called beautiful—her eyes. They were 
intensely blue and compensated for the 
irregularity of her other features. She 
wore her hair combed back severely 
over her ears, which gave her face a 
somewhat constantly startled expression. 
Her thin lips were firmly set, and only 
when she smiled did a kind of warmth 
light up her face. Her body was small, 
and perhaps a little too heavy, but he 
had always found it fascinating. Only 
after they had spent the night at her 
apartment several times had she allowed 
him the pleasure of lying back in bed 
and watching her undress. 

He fished the olive out of his Mar¬ 
tini and ate it, then lit another cigarette. 

Even before \'ivien had become in¬ 
volved with d'he Societv, she had been 
somewhat of an enigma. Another rea¬ 
son, he thought, whv I know I’m not 
in love: no one can fall in love with an 
enigma. Once she had asked liim about 
liis work and his home, and when he had 
told her onlv one fact, that he lived in 
Newark, she had never again questionetl 
him. 'Ehere’s something wrong w'itli 
us, he thought. W^e have none of the 
normal desires to know about each 
other. I don’t know where Vivien is 
from and she has no idea what my 
background is. It’s like acting on a 
stage without scenery, without a script, 
and with ikx knowledge of what comes 

The night they met, Bill had struck 
up a conversation with a middle-aged 
book retailer who had been waiting for 
Vivien and who introduced them when 
she came into the bar. He had seen her 
there several times after that. And 
finally one Friday night at five-thirty 
she had come in alone and sat down 
beside him. 

He remembered that evening clearly. 
A cold October evening when he was 
celebrating his discharge from the 
Army. He had been staring at a sign 
in French pasted on the blue mirror 
and wishing that he had taken more 
than one semester of P'rench back in 
high school. Un ref as sans vin c^est une 

journec sans soleiL And his mind hai 
fumbled with the words. 

A meal without wine, he had thought 
is like ... is like ... a journey, yesl 
A journey without a soul. My life ha; 
been like that in so many ways. Alway; 
the meaningless trip, the wasted time 
All the wrong decisions. . . . 

After she had come in and startec 
to talk to him, he asked her, indicatin' 
the sign, if she ever felt that her lift 
was like a journey without a soul. Am 
she had smiled and corrected him. 

‘‘Jotnniee means day. It reads: V 
meal without wine is like a day with 
out sun.’ ” 

Now he stared at the sign. Viviei 
was always right. She never says enougl 
to be wrong, he thought. But even th 
things that she says seem to be backet 
up by a cryptic knowledge. 

He thought about it a moment am 
realized that he couldn’t put a nam 
to it. When she found something sh 
liked, she adopted it as her own. Idea' 
people, or religion. Once she discov 
ered them, they were hers. Whej 
Vivien said that it looked like rain, i 
almost always rained. And when sh 
lightly remarked that it was like a da 
without sun, he knew that she woul 
never go on a meaningless trip, a journe 
without a soul. 

At five-thirty he finished his drin 
and watched the front door in the mir 
ror. Vivien came in shaking an uin 
brella. She stood by the door a momer 
and took off her steamed glasses. Whe 
she saw him, she smiled and walke 
past the small crowded tables to th 
bar. He swung around on his stool an 
stood up. 

“Am I late?” she asked. Her blac 
hair was sparkling with drops of rail 
and he noticed that she had worn 
little more make-up than usual. H( 
lips were a thin line of vivid red, an 
the faint touches of rouge on her cheel 
emphasized the blueness of her eyes. 

“Yes,” he said. “You are exact 
thirty-six seconds late.” 

When she stood close to him, he hr 
(Continued on Page 16) 

THE ARCHIVE, February, 194 




Illustrated by Clarence Brown 

|\ yrURPHY stood looking into the 
^’■^■tiny pool. The water was clear 
ind green. On the rock-paved bottom 
;,oggy, black leaves made patterns against 
he gray stone. The green godlet was 
wised on his stone pedestal in the cen- 
;er, and a brown leaf rested in the 
rook of his bronze arm. He did not 
ook at the water but ahead over the 
jarden that, like the leaves, was dead. 
The soggy leaves on the bottom did not 
nove, and soon the fresh leaves that 
loated, moving gently on the surface 
vould be black and soggy and alto- 
Tetber dead on the bottom of the pool. 

Murphy looked into the pool. The 
uirface, he thought, is like a Purgatory 
for the leaves that fall dying from the 
rees into the pool. On the surface they 
loat and live a little longer. Then they 
-vriggle to the rock and lie dead on the 
lottom at the feet of the green godlet. 
The little Cupid poised on one foot, 
on the toe of one foot, as if he were 
i'eady to leap. Not to leap into the pool, 
for his eyes are fixed greenh' on the 
irown garden. He has forever been 
•eady, here in the pool, to leap; and yet 

he stands waiting, afraid. 

The green of spring and all the gar¬ 
den springly green beckons him. The 
colored garden like an easel in the sum¬ 
mer tempts him from his stone perch. 
In the summer nights, in the moonlight 
nights of summer, why does he not leap 
and run green through the color and the 
grass? Fear is fearing to leap, and he 
waits until the fall. But he does not 
fall. He just stands here pcfised, paused, 
impatiently poised and does not run 
green through the rustly leaves. 

Leaves dying and the surface of the 
pool like a Purgatory at the feet of 
Green Godlet, God Green poised for 
the Second Coming when he shall leap 
from his throne in the .spring. He 
should spring from his throne, but he is 
afraid and looks at the garden in the 

brownlv winter—the bare brown gar¬ 

Why doesn’t he move? How hard 
it must be in the spring to see all about 
him stir with life while he stands dead 
above the grave of the black, soggy 

The Green Bastard knows. He 
must know by his nose when summer 
comes, and the flowers perfume the air 
in the night. The powdery wings of a 
butterfly on his cheek, a flutter-by flit¬ 
ting about his head, must warn him of 
the summer even if he sleeps through 
the spring. 

But in the living seasons, the green 
months, he stands and spurts water from 
his belly-button; his unbuttoned belly 
sprays water at the pool. He’s not even 
(on Page 24) 

“ni get you. I will. You've got no right to stand there alone and do nothing. Like a scholar, a 

scholar on spurting." 

PHE ARCHIVE, February, 1947 


The^ ‘Toefs ‘Tage-) 

0)1 Be/f/g Yo/nig 

I y-'un^, 

\" ■- yoim- 1 \\ omlor. 

Ii \\ > 11 - rinjr 1 think of maturity, 

\n> •ii.ituriiifr I yearn for tleetingr 

y -nth. 

In V .. - for the passinfr of my years, 1 


.\n,! in siijhinj;, 

I .lii: ymn^. 

F.nta Harrii-.ttk Cove 

Ki}ig Nicotine 

A paek of eigarettes, a matcli—-how odd! 
That in our modern age supreme should 

King Nicotine, the Yellow-fingered God, 
The deity, for poets, and a tool. 

“When in disgrace with Fortune and men’s 

We would compose, remember, or forget, 
We'\e but to let the \otive incense rise 
From fuming pipe, cigar, or cigarette; 

And in the dry, ensla\ing weed is found 
The final panacea: we inhale; 

The smouldering orisons replace the sound 
Of others prayers, hold solace if we fail. 

Tobacco bred of Earth, Promethean fire 
Thus meet anti intermingle; gods retire. 

Donald Tho.mpson 

Alnse No. lo 

Fhere never was an object more observed 
.Vnd less appreciated than the tray 
I'hat catches all the ashes that have served 
I'o burn a million daily cares away. 

Who stops to think that in a crystal dish 
Mav lie an after-dinner joke. 

Or, at the time at least, a heartfelt wish 
That swirled and was forgotten with the 

Y'ho knows how many hearts this tray con¬ 

How many thwarted dreams have found a 

.Cmid the twisted ashes—gray remains 
Of lives that even poets could not save. 

Here is a cemetery, nev'er seen. 

Of scraps that are—and worlds that might 
have been. 

Lewis Buck 

Think Not That 
WeYe Apart 

We parted come the leaving time— 
What’s that? We parted did I say? 
Oh foolish thought that thinks that Pm 
Apart from you since you’re away. 

It makes no matter where you are; 

Your kiss lives with me constantly. 
The greatest distance is no bar 
To dear and lifelike memory. 

So think not that when we’re apart 
We truly absent are; for we 
.Are ever close in mind and heart, 

.And that’s as close as one can be. 

R. D. L. 

I Have Met The Night 

And so at last I have met the night. 

I’ve walked alone 
.And felt its might. 

Its strength and its 

Cuddle and lull to rest a city. 

.And I have walked alone with rain. 

I’ve felt it cool 

The tired brain 

Have felt it soothe 

The heaving breast 

Of earth—who finally can rest. 

.As darkness comes, the lights go on. 

.And laughter comes 
For a little while. 

Sorrow gone. 

But laughter ceases, 

.And earth remembers, and gathers the pieces. 

And so at last I have met the night 
I’ve walked alone 
Past city light. 

.At last we’ve met. 

When day is o’er 

I know that we will meet once more. 

Rosalie Halbren 


THE ARCHIVE, February, 1947 

By Virginia Woolf 
Harcourt, Brace £ 5 ? Company 

In June, 1920, the Netv York Times 
Book Review had the following to say 
about Virginia Woolf’s first novel. The 
Voyage Out (printed by the Hogarth 
Press—Virginia Woolf and husband, 

“Aside from a certain cleverness- — 
which being all in one key, palls on one 
after going through a hundred pages 
of it—there is little in this oflFering 
to make it stand out from the ruck of 
mediocre novels which make far less 
literary pretension. . . . The story itself 
is painfully lacking both in coherency 
and narrative interest ... it is an¬ 
nounced as the author’s first novel. 
That fact is the most hopeful thing 
about it. With the cleverness shown 
here, crude as some of it is, there 
should be a possibility of something 
worth while from the same pen in the 

■ No matter what the value of the 
whole review, the critic on the Times 
was not mistaken in his last surmise. 
During the next few years, Virginia 
Woolf wrote the three novels that gen¬ 
erally are considered to be her best, 
Jacob's Room, Mrs. Calloway, and To 
>he Lighthouse. reader coming upon 
these books in the order in which they 
were written cannot help noticing Mrs. 
Woolf’s growing jealousv of the part 
that action plays in novels. More and 
more, she attempted to make her books 
m imaginative narrative of thought, 
with what little action that was neces¬ 
sary shown onl}' in the faint reflections 
;)f a mind. Gerald Bullitt describes 
her as a “metaphysical poet w'ho has 
fchosen prosefiction for her medium.” 
I Then, in 1928, she departed from 
her already radical theories and tried 
i new experiment. She wrote Orlando. 

THE ARCHIVE, February, 1947 

Orlando, from any hasty inspection, 
appears to be a conventional biograph}. 
The reader will find an Index wherein 
are listed the various names, books, and 
places that are mentioned in the text; 
he will find greatful acknowledgement 
in the Preface for help received in writ¬ 
ing the book; he will find sources per¬ 
taining to Orlando’s life mentioned 
throughout the book itself, and many 
times Mrs. Woolf decries the fact that 
information about certain periods in his 
life is lacking. 

closer inspection, however, reveals 
that Orlando is anything but a conven¬ 
tional subject for a biographv. W'^hen 
one first is introduced to the hero, he is 
a small boy living in Elizabethan times; 
but at the close of the book, Orlando, 
who somehow changes from a man to 
a woman in the middle of tlie stor\', 
is only thirty-eight years old and tlie 
time is “T hursday, the eleventh of Oc¬ 
tober, Nineteen hundred and T'w'enty- 
Eight”—more than three hundred years 
later! After discovering this, one be¬ 
gins to feel that perhaps he should pre¬ 
pare himself for anything—an atti¬ 
tude that is highly commendable. 

Orlando supposedly is a deviation 
from Mrs. Woolf’s “ordinary” style; 

yet, in more instances than not, it is 
basically the same t}'pe of writing that 
characterizes her other work. 

Orlando’s unorthodox performance 
of changing sex immediately brings to 
mind a like circumstance in another of 
Virginia W oolt’s books, Mrs. Callo¬ 
way, in which Clarissa Dalloway and 
Septimus are su[)posed to be the same 
person. T hen, too, as in Orlando, she 
always has shown very little respect for 
the conventional conception of time. 
Orlattdo does contain, it must be ad¬ 
mitted, a little more action than usual; 
but it is the type of action that is pe¬ 
culiar to .Mrs. Woolf (that is, never 
action for tlie sake of action). Einally, 
to complete the similarit\’ ot this book 
to her other books, it is overly preten¬ 
tious. Orlando never cpiite realizes 
what it seems to he trying to say. 

It is this last characteristic, perhaps, 
that is the crux of the matter. Disap¬ 
pointment stems from one’s meeting 
with less than is expected. The jacket 
blurb boldh’ states that 'T)rlando is one 
of those rare books that immediatel} 
stamp themselves as literature. ... It 
invites comparison to Tristram Shandy, 
Gulliver's 'Travels, and Candide. . . . 
T he only modern work that equals it 
in wit and learning, symphonic point- 
counter-point of reference and skillful 
echoes of the great st\ lists ... is Joyce’s 
Ulysses, a less realized, more topheav\ 
novel.” T he reader is urgently ailvised 
to take the last statement with a grain 
of salt. 

In Orlando, one supposedh' finds a 
“wild-bird’s-e\e view of English his¬ 
tory.” T his is true in part. It certainly 
is a “v\ild” view; and in main in¬ 
stances, it definiteh is “bird’s ene.” 
Orlando ver\ markedl} reflects in his 
(her) character the customs, dreams, 
and obsessions of the different jieriods 
I Continued on Rage 25 j 


No College Football 

For My Kid 


Chronicle Sports Editor 

It' and when the writer is ever blessed 
with a U>\ child, the little rascal is going 
t<- be impressed at an early age with a 
t"; w tacts of life from his old man. 
Hesides giving him d'he W ord on such 
matters of import as the evils of women, 
cheap liquor, and shooting craps with 
stransjers, I intend to drill one other bit 
(if wisdom into his head—college foot¬ 
ball is not for him. 

Providing he happens to develop a 
liking for the game. I’m going to try 
m\' best to make him realize that if he 
has adequate command of his senses he 
will voluntarilv terminate his playing 
davs upon graduating from prep school. 

When he gets to college he may take 
up anv extra-curricular activity he 
chooses—lacrosse, necking, track, or 
potsy—but not football. 

Perhaps by the time I’m old enough 
to resemble a Calvert ad I’ll have 
changed mv mind. But right now I 
don’t think I want my son to be a 
collegiate “football hero” or even trj' 
to be one. 

It isn’t that I fear he would break 
his neck (despite the fact that I almost 
did that very same thing). It’s just that 
I think college football has becorne so 
“loused up” that much of the fun has 
been taken out of it for the boys who 

College ball today isn’t as harmful 
t(. a man physically as it is psychologi¬ 
cally. Under the present set-up he 
stands a better than fair chance of hav¬ 
ing his sense of values distorted to the 
extent that h(^is hardly prepared to make 
his way in the world when he leaves 
school. And understand that the foot¬ 
ball player who makes such good grades 

that he has business firms bidding for 
his services is quite the exception. 

I feel awfully sorry for this Justice 
boy oyer at Chapel Hill, just as I do for 
any All-American in this day and age. 
Football will be his meal-ticket just as 
long as his legs hold out. When his pro 
days have ended, at the approximate age 
of 32, this “Wonder Boy,” now fawned 
upon by students, alumni, and half- 
baked sports editors alike, will have to 
convince some employer that he has 
something in his head besides an abun¬ 
dance of gridiron savvy. And you’d be 
surprised to know how many personnel 
managers there are who don’t give a 
damn how well you can thread your 
way through a broken field. 

The major universities today, as far 
as their football players are concerned, 
rank in the same category as minor 
league baseball clubs. A kid doesn’t try 
to make the team just for the honor 
alone. That sort of thing went out 
with button shoes. Today there is an¬ 
other incentive—money. The better 
you are, the more money you can ask 
for. And if you are really hot stuff, 
the chances are that you will get it. 

It is almost impossible to try to play 
college football now just for the fun 
involved. I know. I tried it. 

Mind you, I have no ax to grind, 
nor do I have a chip on my shoulder 
because I failed to make the grade. My 

Pic on opposite page of 
Jerry Lee Whitford and 
George Clark 

Johnny Morfit 

future financial security, thank God, is 
not contingent upon my being drafted 
by the Chicago Bears. 

My first year in college, despite the 
fact that I didn’t weigh 160 pounds 
with a brick in each hand, I went out 
for the freshman team. I did so be¬ 
cause I liked the game and hadn’t had 
my fill of it in high school. As a high 
school junior, I had broken my collar 
bone three days before the first game 
and that shelved me for the season. My 
senior year, consequently, was the only 
one in which I had played any football 
at all. 

Down here, not being a scholarship 
man, I was a complete non-entity,. 
Other than playing with no distinction 
whatsoever against State’s freshmen, 
about the only action I saw was at prac¬ 
tice when the coach had me run the 
ball — without interference — against 
various defensive alignments, just tc 
give the first-string backs and ends some 
live bait on which to practice their 
tackling. It was always rather inter¬ 
esting to see if I could beat the six of 
them to the line of scrimmage after the 
ball was snapped to me. I seldom did. 
But, what the heck—I wasn’t getting 
killed, so I stuck it out. Besides, I wa; 
having my character built. 

Ultimately, though, I did get my 
lumps—but good. In the latter part of 
the season I was clip^ped from behinc 
in a practice scrimmage and my lef 
knee was shot to hell. The inboarcj 
cartilage was torn apart and jammee, 
between the joint. The leg, to bore yoi 
with the gory details, was locked at i 
right angle, and the pain, to say the leastj 

THE ARCHIVE, February, 1941 


was considerable. I felt as if I had 
been pole-axed. 

A couple of assistant managers shov¬ 
eled me oflF the field and helped me to 
the locker room, where I lay on a bench 
while they cut the pants off me with 
scissors. When I asked the equipment 
man for a pair of crutches, so that I 
could get up to the hospital, he said he 

part of my leg was about as big around 
as Buffa Garrett’s forearm. 

Well, it wasn’t my intention to use 
this article as a means of singing the 
blues to anybody about my misfortunes 
as a Would-be football player. I re¬ 
lated the foregoing little personal his¬ 
tory merely to point out that you can’t 
play the game for tun. In other words. 

the pain of three cracked transverse 
processes, which are small bones at¬ 
tached to tJie vertebrae. When he did 
get into the game he couldn’t do much 
anyway. The other team won, as a 
matter of fact, 21-0, and the following 
week, before another important battle, 
the process was repeated. 

Now I ask you—is a football game 

had “no aiu. ihem to me 

,md walked away. I made the trip from 
Ifhe gym to the hospital (a good three 
quarters of a mile) by hopping on one 

After the doctors got through work- 
ng me over, my entire leg was encased 
n a plaster cast for two months. When 
!:hey chopped me out of it the lower 

unless you are somebodv to begin with, 
you don’t even rate a pair of crutches 
when tou’re washed up. It’s things like 
that that make a gu\ a little bitter at 

Before a game in 1945, one univer¬ 
sity’s star halfback was jabbed in the 
spine with a hypodermic needle filled 
with procaine so that he wouldn’t feel 

worth so much that tou ilope up a 19- 
year-old kid’s spine just on the theory 
that if he is sufficient!v benumbed he 
might grind out a few first downs: 

Hell no, it isn’t. .And I don’t want 
anybody sticking my kid with a hvpo 
when he is alreadv suffering from a 
serious back injurv. 

(Continued on Pnge 26) 

rHE ARCHIVE, February, 1947 



calls me Marne. They know I don’' 
like it but they do it to tease me, ] 
think. What.? Oh, this bus.? Isn’t tha; 
exciting! A two-story bus. And open- 
air, too! What they won’t think oi 
next. Can we sit on top.? Oh well 
if it’s only four blocks I guess it’s noi 
worth going upstairs either. 

Isn’t it a shame it’s so dark out to¬ 
day.? Everything looks so dull anc 
grey. Why, I can hardly tell one sho[ 
from another. Does New York alwayi 
look this way.? I didn’t think so. I meai 
the sun just has to shine sometime 
Grand Forks is grey some days, bu 
most of the time the sun . . . oh, look! 
There’s Peck and Peck’s. What : 
beautiful store! The stores here are S( 
beautiful. Where? Oh, there’s Alt¬ 
man’s. Where are you going? Oh, W( 
get off here. My, that was such a shor 
ride. I just love busses, don’t you, Mr 

Right across the street.? Oh, it’s S( 
tall. I wonder how they ever made ; 
building so tall. They’d have to havi 
terribly long ladders to get up there 
wouldn’t they? Now don’t take mi 
seriously. . . . 

Oh, of course I want to go to thi 
top. You have to pay.? Now isn’t tha 
ridiculous! I won’t pay a dollar anc 
a quarter; that’s an outrageous price 
You can get passes.? Mr. Saloman 
you’re wonderful. You’re the presideni 
of your company? I had no idea tha 
such an young-looking man could h 
the president of a whole company. Yoi 
must be a very clever man. What.? Oh 
of course. I’ll wait for you right her 
under the clock and you hurry and ge 
the passes. Now don’t be long. Mi 

Here I am, here I am, Mr. Sale 
man. You almost walked right by mei 
If I hadn’t turned at that instant I be 

where it is.? 'I’ou’re going there.? If 
tliat isn’t luck for vou. Isn’t it wonder¬ 
ful that I bumped into you! .All right. 

“You’re going to the Empire State Building? Now isn’t it 
wonderful that I humped into you?” 

/^OPS! Oh, I’m so sorrv, I didn’t 
mean to bump into vou. I was just 
'-.okinz for the Empire State Building, 
and New 'I'ork is such a big town to me! 
.Not that I don’t like it—oh, please don’t 
oet t.iat idea—hut it’s the first time 
I’\e been here and evertthing is just 
b.g. Don’t toll agree.' Oh, you’ve 
I ved here r'l your life.' Well, you 
mu,t ttiink I’m just a stupid little coun- 
tr\ ;;irl. But I rcall', would like to see 
the Empire State Building. You know 

I’ll just follow you. . . . 

What did you say your name was.? 
.VIr. Saloman.? Isn’t that nice. I used 
to know a Mr. Salomon in Grand 
Forks, but he didn’t look like you. Do 
you know any Mr. Saloman in Grand 
Forks? Oh, that’s a shame. My name.? 
Now why would you want to know my 
name.? It’s such a simple little country 
name. Well, if you insist . . . it’s Helen 
.Marie Ivan. Isn’t that terrible? Most 
people call me Marie, but my family 



THE ARCHIVE, February, 194' 




I vou would have missed me. There I 
am being lucky again! You couldn’t 
get them? Well, how long will they 
be using them? Oh gracious, I just 
can’t w'ait that long. But thank you so 
much for trying. No, I absolutely re¬ 
fuse to pay that price. No, I won’t let 
you do it. It is silly to waste money 
just to see the top of a silly old building. 
I’d rather go into the bar here and have 
I a drink . . . then I wouldn’t feel that 
I was wasting the money. But it’s a 
nice-looking bar, Mr. Saloman. Your 
private club? Oh, how e.xciting. I’d 
much rather go there. Where is it? 
We can’t? But it shouldn’t be closed 
I today. Today is only 'I hursday. Now 
'^why would they have to be redecorating 
I today? Isn’t that a shame. Well, we 
■ might as well go right in this bar. 

i Illustrated By 

Pat Wimberley 

\ Gracious, it’s crowded in here. Oh 
; I look, there’s a cozy little table right 
■over there in the corner. . Don’t lose 
'jme, Mr. Saloman. Let’s hurry before 
janyone else takes it. Oh! Now look 
j what that clumsy waiter did. All over 
J my brand new suit. Never mind, it 
[will dry in a few minutes. But I feel 
jjlike such a mess. Let’s sit down. . . . 
I hate to have people staring at me. 

Oh, aren’t those darling menus. Do 
you think they would mind if I just 
tucked one inside my purse? .My mother 
‘would think I wasn’t her own daughter 
if I didn’t bring home a lot of sou- 
'venirs. There. 'I'hey’ll never miss it. 
’Pardon? Oh, a daiquiri sounds delight- 
'ful. "V'es, that will be fine. 

I’m so glad we came in here, Mr. 
'Saloman. It has so much atmosphere. 
Why, you can’t even see who’s sitting 
[at the ne.xt table, "^’ou don’t like it? 
AVell, we’ll just have one drink and 
then leave. 

My, I just can’t help pinching my- 
jself. It all seems like a dream that I 
(Should run into a distinguished man 
dike you. .And out of all these millions 

of people, too! Oh, here are our drinks. 
Don’t they look delicious! No money? 
Well, can’t you cash a check in here? 
How unfortunate. Me? Why, ah, ah. 
I’d be only too glad to, Mr. Saloman. 
No, I don’t mind, really—you can pay 
for the next ones. Now don’t feel em¬ 
barrassed. After all, it’s the least I can 
do after you have been so nice to me. 

Ah, now where do you suggest we 
go from here? I’ve heard so much 
about the Cafe Rouge—I wonder if 
we could go there. Oh, come come, 
Mr. Sal Oman. .Are you going to let a 
stuffy business meeting stand in the way 
of what promises to be a delightful 
evening? No, I just won’t hear of it. 

A’ou don’t like the Cafe Rouge? Well, 
we won’t g<j there then. A’ou suggest 
some place. No, I never heard of that 
place. What about the Waldorf, Mr. 
Saloman? Oh, but I like crowded 
places. Well, if you’d rather go to a 
secluded spot it certainly will be all 
right with me. But the Waldorf is nice 
I’ve heard. Greenwich Village? A"es, 
of course I’ve heard of it. But do they 
have good eating places down there? 
They do? Well, that is where we’ll go, 
I guess. I just love secluded places any¬ 

Oh my, don’t feel badly about not 
having a car. I’d rather ride a bus any- 
(Continued 07i Page 30) 

“Isn’t that strange? You’re the first person I’ve ever heard of 
who didn’t like filet mignon.” 

THE ARCHIVE, February, 1947 


' ok. iinw ■: .it lu r. Ho tilted her 

- - w th I'is li.'.nd until lie could look 

■ . , Miti- lu V .1 es. 

r ti .'k \ .11 so. long: " 

! in:'..rr.iv<ed .it liis public faniiliariti, 

- . ..l.iiiced around the noisy room, but 

\\ .IS sur> he lU'ticed a K>ok ot .satis- 
?, etic.n and relict in her e\es, as though 
slie uere -iiice more sure ot him. 

“Sh.o' I check mv things:"' she asked 
Mivk .i-ain. 

“N.>, let's get the hell out of here.” 
‘‘^^lU might ask me if I want a 
drink. " 

“Do lou."' 


He paid his hill and got his coat and 
hat from the checkroom by the front 
di or, and they left. 

d'he rain had diminished to a steady 
drizzle and looked like snow in the 
lights of the evening traffic. He held 
her umbrella and she took his arm as 
thev walked east to Fifth Avenue. 

‘A’ou’ve had quite a bit, haven’t 
you: ” 

Her voice held no reproach. She was 
merelv asking a question. He nodded 
and steered her across the street, where 
they began to walk south on Fifth. 

.After they had gone half a block, 
he realized that he was walking too 
rapidly for her and he slowed down. 

“Where are we going in such a 
rush.'” she asked, holding her small 
black hat on with her free hand. 

“Nowhere. This is the journey . . .” 
but he stopped. 

She pulled him into a darkened door¬ 
way and looked up at him. 

“Would you do something for me.?” 
'Fhe flashing lights of the passing 
cars gave her face the illusion of fading 
into the depths of the dark corner and 
then returning in a startling brilliance. 
He watched her eyes and could see, 
when they were lighted, that they were 
serious and almost pleading. 

“W'hat do you want me to dor” 

“I want you to come with me to a 
meeting tonight.” She hesitated, un- 

-Late ill November- 

{Continued from Page S) 

able to sec his expression. “I want to 
show vou what The Society is doing, 
how important it is. In the future. . . .” 
Site stopped and waited. 

Finallv he spoke. “Goddammit, I’m 

She began to laugh but checked her¬ 
self, deciding to stick to the point. 

“I mean after dinner. The meet¬ 
ing doesn’t start until eleven-thirty to¬ 
night. Quite a few people at the office 
are bringing guests, and I told them 
that I would, too. You don’t have to 
worry about joining or anything, all 
\'ou have to do is listen.” 

He felt slightly logy from the al¬ 
cohol, but the quick walk in the rain 
had sobered him. Vivien continued to 
talk, but Bill was only half listening; 
he was concentrating more on the 
sound of the rain dripping in front of 
the building. He had a word on the 
tip of his tongue, but it remained be¬ 
hind a thin screen; and Bill looked at 
Vivien and said, “All right. I’ll go with 
you. But let’s get something to eat 

They entered the darkened building 
on Seventeenth Street through a door 
in the side alley. 

“What’s the matter with this outfit.?” 

he asked. “Are they afraid they’ll be 
raided ? ” 

Vivien held his arm and led him 
down a narrow stairway to the base¬ 

“I told you not to drink so much at 
dinner.” Her voice showed that she was 
annoyed. “I was hoping you’d get 
something out of this, but if you’re 
going to adopt that kind of attitude—” 

He steipped when they got to a hall¬ 
way in the cellar and turned to her. 

“I’m not adopting any attitude. I’m 
just mildly curious to see what this is 
all about. Certainly the abracadabra 
you went through at dinner and at your 
apartment didn’t make much sense. I 
fear the high lama didn’t teach you 
how to brief people very well.” 

Her eyes were pleading again. “Bill, 
it’s a little difficult to tell you anything! 
when you’re drunk. But at least I’m 
glad you’re curious. Let’s go on down 
the hall or we’ll be late.” 

They moved on to a door that had 
some faint light shining through the 
glass in the transom. 

“Doesn’t sound like anyone’s at 

Vivien shook her head and motioned 
for him to be quiet. 

“They’re having Silent Period. We 
ore late. We’ll just have to go in quietly 
and sit in the back.” 

She opened the door slowly, and they 
entered the room. It was too dark to 
see much at first, but as they stepped by 
an elderly man in order to get to two 
vacant seats in the last row of chairs. 
Bill could see in the faint candlelight 
that the man was staring olf into spacej 
with an odd expression on his face. Hej 
didn’t seem to notice them as theyj 
passed him, and he failed to acknowl-' 
edge Bill’s “Excuse us.” 

Bill gazed around the room. Therei 
were about fifty people sitting on 
straight-backed chairs, and all the peo¬ 
ple that he could see were staring off 
into space like the old man beside him. 

(Continued o?i Page 19) 


THE ARCHIVE, February, 1947 


“Wh}’, you and I know that fra¬ 
ternities are as American as apple pie. 
What could be more democratic than 
a group of fine young men living to¬ 
gether, sharing each other’s problems, 
enjoying each other’s company, working 
together for the good of all ?”—Max 

This profound and weighty quote 
from the sage of the age serves as a 
suitable springboard to this equally 
weighty article. It is a quote that has 
in part been quoted copious times on 
our ivyless campus during the past few 

For rushing is with us once again . . . 
that time of year when a freshman’s 
fancy lightly dwells on the relative 
merits of the Omicrons, Epsilons, and 
Taus. Grizzled fraternity men pull 
themselves together for another siege; 
and for a short, blissful period the 
welkin of wholesale good fellowship 
rings in every tastefully-appointed chap¬ 
ter room on campus. 

Every freshman, be he war veteran 
or beardless neophyte, gets a new slant 
on life at Duke during this open sea¬ 
son. During the first semester—when 
the sagacious Pan-Hel Council forbids 
extra-curricular relations between fresh¬ 
men and fraternities—he is alone, faced 
with his own problems, and friendly 
'only with his freshman classmates. But 
now, look what new worlds are opened 
to him! In two Sundays plus he has 
made the acquaintance of distinctive, 
key-rattling men in eighteen fraterni¬ 
ties, all of whom are clamoring for 
him and wanting to know him better. 
He is a man-on-campus now, sought- 
after and feted at every turn. 

I or two Sundays he goes around to 
'all the fraternities and graces each hal¬ 
lowed hall with a half-hour of his time, 
'shaking hands, laughing and talking 
'with these swell fellows. 'Ehev all are 
so nice and amiable. These two days. 


they explain, are just preliminary pe¬ 
riods in which everyone gets to know 
and size up everyone else. 

Just for the record, let’s accompany 
the typical American college freshman, 
Aberdeen Outhouse, on a few of his 
preliminary tours. He enters one fra¬ 
ternity section and is pounced upon by 
a large group of hand-pumping, grin¬ 
ning Cheshire cats. A card is made out 
for him, a blinding fiash camera takes 
his picture, and he is pushed into a spa¬ 
cious chapter room furnished with 
cream-colored Venetian blinds, a blue 
plush carpet and approximately thirty- 
eight armchairs. Each armchair is casu¬ 
ally filled with one or two well dressed 
men, while the brothers left over are 
piled in regular heaps on the floor. It 
is one of the larger fraternities. 

Aberdeen is seated in one of the 
quickly-vacated armchairs, oflFered a ci¬ 
garette, light, pink-colored lemonade, 
and is immediately surrounded by many, 
many fraternity men who seem intensely 
interested in his name, home town, ac¬ 
tivities and opinions of Duke so far. 
Eor half an hour Aberdeen is besieged 
with queries and cigarettes, the while 
meeting everyone in the lodge. He 
meets half the football team, several 
ODK’s, the editor of the campus news¬ 
paper and a bifocaled, wall-eyed Phi 

“We have lots of pretty important 
men on campus, Ab” says the chapter 
president, a sparsely-thatched indiyidual 
who is in his eleventh and final semes¬ 
ter at Duke. “Sports, scholastics, every¬ 
thing. Wait a minute, let me introduce 
another one of the brothers before you 
leave. .Aberdeen, this is—uh, oh, I 

A brief satirical take-off on 
Rush Week by one who 
knows from whence 
he speaketh. 

know your name as well as I know my 

“A'ou should,” sniflFed the other 
brother, “I was initiated two years ago.” 

So .Aberdeen fights his way to the 
door and emerges into the open air once 
more, eyes smarting from smoke, to 
continue on his rounds. Nice guys at 
that place—they make you feel right at 

His next stop is also interesting. One 
man meets him at the door, tears oflF 
the other fraternity’s card, replaces it 
with another, and leads him into a pink 
and purple chapter room where ten or 
twelve of the brothers are strategically 
seated to create the impression that the 
room is filled. This is one of the smaller 

The men shake Ab’s hand hungrily 
and usher him to the finest armchair in 
the room. They hang over him and a 
small-scale third degree begins. Aber¬ 
deen answers their sporadic questions 
easily and listens with a smile to the 
gay banter and strained laughter of the 
brothers. They josh each other good- 
naturedly about such topics as the study 
habits of one brother or the compara¬ 
tive frigidity of the other’s date last 
night, all the while thoughtfully includ¬ 
ing .Ah in their conversation. When 
they exhaust their supply of talk and 
find out that only one present has ever 
heard of .Ab’s home town, they ply him 
with literature about the fraternity. 

‘“Ehe main thing about us,” smiled 
the president, a nondescript character 
with no shoulders, “is that we favor 
a small well-knit group instead of a 
large one in which no one knows any¬ 
one else. We’re all very close, and have 
a helluva good time.” 

“I'liat’s not a bad idea,” ailmits 
.Aberdeen, “But tell me, do you have a 
chapter in Utah?” 

“Well, no, not right now. But plans 
(Continued on Page 29) 

THE ARCHIVE, February, 1947 



W. S. S. F. 





18 THE ARCHIVE, February, 194' 

Each month a 
box of Life Sav¬ 
ers is given to 
the person con¬ 
tributing the 
best joke of the 

Are you 


You might be— if you love onions and men too! 
They just don’t go together, Honey! Unless, that is, 
you keep your breath sweet with yummy Life Savers. 
Then, you’re in the f^roove right. You can go on loving 
onions, men, and of course you’ll love Life Savers, too. 

“In the groove” backwards 

This Month’s Winning Joke 

Two coeds went for a tramp in the woods. 
The tramp escaped. 

—submitted by Joe Di Mona 

.♦xr>^>4>X jX "X'S'X't'X ? "■? ■ ? 

-Late ill November- 

(Conthmed from Page 16) 

He thought about a lecture he had once 
heard on mass-hypnotism. The candles 
on the table in front of the room flick¬ 
ered in the silence and cast on the wall 
and ceiling distorted shadows of the 
woman sitting behind the table. He 
turned to ask Vivien about the silence 
in the room, but remained quiet when 
he saw her with her head in her hands. 
No one seemed to be praying. Their 
lips were motionless, their heads erect, 
and their eyes staring fixedly at nothing 
in particular. Bill waited for something 
to happen. The heat in the room seemed 
almost overpowering, and he began to 
yearn for the coolness of the rain. 

He was ready to believe that they 
were all in a trance when suddenly a 
deep, guttural female voice shouted, 
“Nothing! Are w'e thinking about 
nothing.? Are our minds a void?” 

He started and looked at the woman 
behind the table at the front of the 
room. She had thrown back her head 
and was extending her arms to the 
audience. Someone turned on a bright 
light which hung from the ceiling in 
the middle of the room. The piercing 
voice of the woman behind the table 
and the sudden light brought the room 
to life. Greetings were exchanged, sev¬ 
eral people began to smoke. Vivien 
turned to him and, with a rapt expres¬ 
sion, said, “Oh, Bill, she’s wonderful! 
Wait till you know her!” 

Bill smiled weakly and muttered, “I 

Vivien seemed to be enchanted. Her 
face was radiant. 

“She’ll probably explain a little bit 
about The Society tonight since there 
ire quite a few guests here.” 

Bill (jlanced around the room ajiain. 

O O 

Most of the people seemed to be con¬ 
servative looking white-collar workers 
ind housewives from modest suburban 
areas. There were, however, a few 
somewhat disreputable looking char¬ 
acters in a corner beside a water heater. 
Bill wondered which ones w'cre the 

“Who is the woman behind the 
desk?” he asked. 

“She’s the one I told you about. "’I’ou 
know, the one I talked to at Bressen’s 
that day. I don’t know her name. W'e 
don’t use our names here.” 

“Oh. W'’ell, what was the meaning 
of the silence when we came in? W'^ere 
\’ou supposed to pray.''” 

“Not e.\actly. '’i'ou see, we try to 
forget our identity. \VT try to lose our 
individuality. That’s so we’ll be in tune 
for the meetings. It’s hard to cxjilain 
right now. Bill. I think you’ll under¬ 
stand better after the meeting’s over.” 
Then she noticed that his eyes were half- 
closed and she added, “Bill, if you’d 
try to sober up—” 

'J'he woman dropped her arms to the 
desk with a loud thump and then stood 
up. She was wearing a long, flowing red 
dress and miglit easil\' luive been mis¬ 
taken for a fortune teller. Her hair 
was pulled back behind her ears and 
tied with a wide gold-coloreil ribbon. 
'I'he harsh light emphasized the abun¬ 
dance of wrinkles and cliins ami was 
reflected from the ilozens of tight brace¬ 
lets she wore on each :irm. 

'Fhe room was again cpiiet, but this 
time there was an air of expectancy in 
the silence. Even Bill felt the sudden 
desire to hear wh;it the leader was going 
to say. 

.Maybe, he thought, there is some- 
( Continued on Sext Page) 

THE ARCHIVE, February, 1947 


- . _ f IS. .uul maybe I think 

' .. (.■ ms;-n't bi L'.causc I'm tight. 

- ; u w.isr’t drunk enough not to 
j _ * ,'\vin^ himself to be- 

" i-.; tl'.vrt m.w n't be. 1 he bitter- 
•' IS •-'is, 'p, -ntments had always 
^ vrvi ' .! :,.p:s. Hut, after all, he 

t.. 'r( ha\e been so mane at- 
t^;-. ’t'. ..a.sueeessful as far as I’m con- 
-I to r- 'ch the right religion; the 

\ .i'-s i.i. produced so manv people 
\c : were ,:lmost able to speak the word remains behind a screen—almost 
.e! but not quite. 

I hi n --ince again the startling voice 

'ke; “ I'he Societv greets you! We 
w 'come back the familiar faces and 
we extend just as warm a welcome to 
the neu faces, the new hopes that are 
hen tonight. As in the past, I want you 
all to feel free to ask questions or speak 
anv rime. .Anv time at all! If you’ve 
got something to say, say it! Just con¬ 
sider me a force through which you 
mav reach each other. For if you can 
reach others, then you can reach your¬ 

She took a pair of thick glasses out 
of her pocketbook and slowly and 
meticulouslv cleaned them, holding 
them up to the glaring light bulb to 
inspect her work. Finally she put them 
on and sat down. 

“Now, let’s get on with it!” 

Her voice had calmed down to a 
conversational tone, but she spoke with 

Hill, looking quickly at the others, 
found that they were as fascinated by 
her as he was. 

.Maybe it’s because I’m tight, he 

Hut her dramatic gestures, the studied 
tone of her voice, her immense size, and 
her (ostume were enough to arouse 
mure than a casual interest. 

“f irst of all. I’ll attempt to explain 
■riedy about 'Fhe .Society. Since there 
i- m better way <.f saying it, we’ll 
have to- use the word religious to define 
■ -r purpi^X'.” 

Th.ojLigh the thick lenses of her 
gl.'e--s, her eyes seemed twice their 

normally large size. The ribbon in her 
hair duttered back and forth and she 
looked from one side of the room to 
the other. 

Hill leaned towards Vivien and whis¬ 
pered thicklv, “Did vou ever read any 
of Rabelais.^” 

\’ivien was irritated. “Whop Oh, 
Hill, please be quiet.” 

Hill lit a cigarette and offered Vivien 
one, but she pushed his hand away with¬ 
out taking her eyes off the leader. 

“I sav ‘religious’ in the sense of giv¬ 
ing a meaning to life. That’s what I 
think religion is. .Most of us spend our 
lives searchijig for meanings and wind 
up compromising on something we’re 
not even sure we believe in. We’re 
here tonight because we are not willing 
to compromise!” And she emphasized 
the “we” by banging her fist on the 

Hill blew out a thick stream of smoke 
and watched it gathering around the 
light bulb. In spite of the heat in the 
room, the effect of the alcohol was 
wearing off and leaving an enormous 
thirst for water. 

“The main trouble with our search¬ 
ing is that it’s been mostly on the wrong 
track. People have created gods 
throughout the centuries, worshiped 
them, lived in fear of them, fully ex¬ 
pecting to be rewarded by them when 
they died. And when they died, they 
found that they had only begun, that 
they had wasted their time and efforts 
going along the wrong track. This 
Society has no name. We don’t believe 
in names, but if you wish to think of it 
in terms of words, then perhaps you 

might call it the ‘Oneness in All.’ ” 

She paused and wiped her forehead 
with a large lace handkerchief. 

“ ‘The Oneness in All.’ We believe 
that the eventual destiny of all peoples 
of all time is the glorified unity of one, 
that all time and space will be as one. 
.And so, our purpose is to further this 
belief, to spread the knowledge of the 
coming oneness throughout the world. 
By doing this we will be ready for the 
second process when we reach the next 
trial after leaving this world. It would 
take me as long to tell you the complete 
story of The Society as it did for me 
to learn it. And,” she smiled, “that 
would be a matter of over fifty years.” 

Bill suddenly thought about the way 
he felt on a spring day along the coast 
of Jersey and wondered if he would 
ever willingly become one with the 

It’s the way the sand feels under your 
bare feet, he thought, and the new way 
the air smells. It’s not a matter of in¬ 
telligence. And it may be better to let 
the word remain behind the screen if. . . 

“I imagine that some of the guests 
are thinking right now that we’re a‘ 
bunch of Yogis.” She smiled know¬ 
ingly at several of the members. “But 
I’m afraid that you’re on the wrong 
track. No, we don’t recommend going 
off into the hills and meditating over 
some nasty-looking food. Not at all. 
You can live the life you’re living right 
now and still be able to benefit by The! 
Society. You don’t give up anything; 
you keep what you’ve got and we add 
to it.” 

Of course, I’m dreaming, he thought. 
I’m dreaming two things at the same 
time. I’m dreaming about a mad woman 
who claims she’s not a Yogi, and I’m 
dreaming also about the beach in spring 
when you suddenly know that the salt 
air and the crunch of the pebbles under 
y'our feet close to the water and that 
new smell in the air are enough . . . 
they’re enough. . . . 

“For if the world is to be one, if all 
mankind is to evolve itself finally intc 
(Continued on Page 22) 


THE ARCHIVE, February, 1947 

For that springtime wardrobe^ shop 

Spring Begins With 


fascinat'mgl | 





in1<? fiv^ Reli, lovai>le for 
dates:.- remove this: u’ais:ilioe wonder . and 
it's: casual, class-time fait KaifOn 
gafardine m drey, Slelon or Aqua ^^i 2 es Q-I^ 

Get the ROBBINS Habit 
. . . It’s A Durham Tradition 

THE ARCHIVE, February, 1947 



“Late In Noveniber- 

(Continued from Page 20) 
one, then we must start today to live 
towards that glorious end. When ] 
think of all the time that has been 
wasted! All peoples everywhere arc 
destined for the same thing, and so all 
peoples everywhere should now live as 
one. There actually are no boundaries, 
no rich, no poor, no black, no white— 
there is only one. You are the stranger 
who lives next door. And you are the 
person sitting in the next seat.” And 
she waved her finger at the audience. 

Bill felt a little uneasy, but he was 
no longer curious. 

You get a better show at Columbus 
Circle from the soapbox orators, he 

“If that person, who is really you, has 
greater wealth of material things or 
greater knowledge of the oneness, then 
you should have it too. Part of whal 
he has is yours. All is in all, and one— 

Before she could finish, a little bald 
headed man in the front row leaped tc 
his feet shouting, “I thought sol 1 
thought there was something fishy all 
along! You’re nothing but a bunch ol 
communists! You ought to be turner 
over to the cops.” 

He was shaking his fist at the leader 
who stood like a giant eagle ready tc 
swoop down on him. He swung arounc 
to the bewildered audience. His face 
was red with rage and his eyes blazer 
in the sharp light. 

“Why the hell do you all sit hen 
and listen to this idiot babbling abou 
‘one’ and ‘all’ and if you got more thar 
I do then by God you give me some?’ 

Some of the members were standing 
but the entire group rose as the ill-clar 
men in the corner rushed to the fron 
of the room and grabbed the little man 
who continued to scream. 

“You filthy communists, let go o 
me! You all ought to be behind bars!’ 

They carried him out of the roon 
and his screaming protests could b' 
heard from the hallway and the stain 

Bill turned to Vivien and said, “Let’ 
get the hell out of here.” 

THE ARCHIVE, February, 194 

She hesitated and looked at the lead¬ 
er, who had stood like a martyr during 
■ he performance, and who now raised 
ler arms to quiet the people. 

“Friends, there are some who do not 
lave as yet the needed intelligence to 
legin work with The Society. We re¬ 
gret this, but. ...” 

Without waiting any longer. Bill 
ook Vivien’s arm and moved rapidly 
owards the door. As he passed the 
Iderly man on the aisle. Bill shouted 
n his astonished face, “Excuse us!” 
\nd he opened the door and pulled 
/ivien through to the hall. He didn’t 
top until they reached the alley. He 
ladn’t listened to Vivien’s protests, but 
low she drew away from him and 
eaned against the building. 

“Bill, please!” 

He looked at her intently. There 
lad been a kind of excitement in rush- 
ng out of the meeting that way, but 


\ight is a black velvet curtain 
Vhispering down over glaring stagelights. 
ootlights of sunset along the horizon 
'ade as the theater empties, 
i'he world seems to echo the now silent ap¬ 

)f the day that is ended as night slowly falls. 

Bev Weaver 

e saw that no one can make up an¬ 
ther person’s mind. He held out his 
and and watched the drops of water 
|it it. 

“It’s raining, Vivien.” 

I “Bill, why did you do that.?” She 
/as breathing rapidly, and her voice 
eemed unusually harsh. 

, “It rained all afternoon, and now 
,’s raining again.” 

. “Bill, shut up about the damned rain. 
Vhy did you drag me out of there? 
yhat will she tliink? What will she 
ly to me? Just because a stupid little 
jian is unable to understand .something, 
jou lose your mind, heard what 

ne said, he just didn’t have the needed 
itelligence. . . .” 

I Bill put his hand in his pocket. “I 
on’t either, Vivien.” 

“Oh, Bill, you do! Come on now’, 

HE ARCHIVE, February, 1947 

please take me back.” 

“Do you really w'ant to go back 
there? ” 

“But you didn’t hear everything; she 
was really just getting started. Please, 
Bill, take me back.” 

When Vivien stopped talking he 
could hear the hollow sound of the rain 
hitting a garbage can back in the alley 

“What do they usually do with peo¬ 
ple like that little man?” 

“Bill, they had to remove him from 
the meeting, or she wouldn’t have been 
able to go on. They just removed him, 
that’s all; honestly, Bill, you’ve got to 
take me back. She’ll be furious. I’m 
even afraid to go in now, but I’ve got 
to. "^"ou can’t imagine. . . .” And she 
stopped and gasped. 

Before Bill could question her, she 
began to talk again. She was fright¬ 
ened and her voice sounded almost hys¬ 

“Even if you won’t come back to¬ 
night, promise me you’ll come next 
w’eek. The leader from California is 
coming East, and he’ll talk at the next 

“California?” he asked. 

“Yes,” she w'ent on excitedly. “He’s 
going to talk about the results in the 
W^estern Area. Oh, he’s wonderful. 
Bill. So intelligent. I know’ you’ll 
benefit by what he’ll say. I’ve read 
all his correspondence to the New "VYrk 
office, and I can’t w’ait to hear him talk. 
Promise me you’ll. . . .” 

Bill turned up his coat collar and 
began to w'alk slowdy out of the alley. 

“Bill!” she called, “Bill, wait!” 

But it was too late for Bill to wait. 
He hurried towards Seventh Avenue. 
The bars wouldn’t be open much longer. 

It all could be so simple, he thought. 
It’s just a case of saying “No” instead 
of ‘A’es” at the right time. 

The End 

MaL rariiCs 


/vr ROOM 



10001/2 W. Main St. 

Telephones L-961—N-135 



All gather for good meals 
in the pleasant atmos¬ 
phere of 


Just off 

Woman’s College Campus 



Personal Loans 

Savings Loans 

Member Federal Deposit 
Insurance Corp. 




{Cotithmed from Poge 9) 
a decent godlet to spray from liis navel. 
Even tlie Mannekin Pis is a better 
spra\er than Greeny who ejects water 
from his midriff.—They also serve who 
onlv stand and spurt.—Is that what the 
Olvmpic sonneteer has taught all the 
Green Cupids.'^ 

Why doesn’t he jump? I could raise 
niv foot and kick his little behind to 
make him jump. And then I would 
take his place, his pedestalistic place, un¬ 
til he could run through the crunchly 

Murphy began to walk around the 
pool. He studied the godlet from all 

I’ll kick you in the rump, skop, hip, 
jump. You’ve no right, no moral right, 
to stand here and be superior about it as 
if you didn’t want to give anything but 
a squirt to life. Damn you, it’s worth 
more, more than a squirt from your 
belly-button! Suppose, Hose, I stopped 
up the button, and you wouldn’t spurt 
but burst and fall clank-clink on the 
leaved rocks in your little pool. 

He began to speak aloud. The god¬ 
let was too obdurate. 

“Too damned obdurate! Why don’t 
you live and come off your pedestal.^ 
Off your foolish ped-es-tal. If I must 
rustle white through the leaves, you 
must come with me. You must. You 
must! ” 

Having Difficulties ? 


Durham Laundry 

Gregson & Peabody Streets 
Phone L-991 

He leaned far over the edge aia 
grabbed for Greeny. He almost fel 
into the little pool. 

“I’ll get you. I will. You’ve no righ 
to stajid here alone and do nothin^ 
Like a scholar, a scholar on spurting.— 
Here I come. Spurt, in a spurt of speed 
and off your throne you’ll fall clink o 
you’ll jump and live and run greei 
through the brown winterly garden 
Watch out now!’’ 

Splash and the water was cold, anc 
the green body was cold in Murphy’ 
hands. It was cold, hard, and green— 
the nymphian neck in Murphy’s hands 

“You gonna jump-i* You poised 
paused little squirter I’ll throw yoi 
out thump on the grass.—I’ll stani 
back now.—You got no right, n{ 
moralistic right, to stand here always 
giving nothing to life. Everybody ha 
to give something. Everybody.” 

The leaf in the crook of the bronzi 
arm fluttered to the surface of the pool 
The green eyes turned pleadingly tc 
Murphy. He stepped forward again 

“Go on. Jump! ” 

Clinkety, clinkety, clink, clink. Thi 
green teeth tinkled. Clank. The raisec 
foot dropped to the stone and didn’ 

“Jump, goddamit!” 

Thump. Clunk. 

Green he ran rustling through tk 
brown leaves. Across the paved wall 
clanked his feet. 

Murphy’s brain split and wriggled 
burst and roared with laughter. H 
sprang to the mound of stone am 
stood, straining on the toe of one foo 
to watch the green figure flee througj 
the garden. He suddenly felt cold an^ 
started to step down. 

A brown leaf fluttered from the sk: 
and settled in the crook of his arm. Thj 
water cleared and the strange, soggj 
patterns were black on the rocks. 

Murphy shivered. “Good God! I 
don’t knovi^ how, through my bellyj 
button, to squirt, forever.” ' 

The End 

THE ARCHIVE, February, 194 


I -Books- 

{Coiitlmied from Page 11) 

;e (she) lives in. But it is more than 
ust reflection. Mrs. Woolf seems in- 
'flu on interpreting also. It is difficult 
|) ascertain whether her conclusions 
re acceptable or not, for they are so 
ague and ambiguous that almost any- 
ling can be inferred. A person whose 
nowledge is scant concerning the his- 
)ry of England will learn little more 
y reading this book; on the other 
and, a person well versed in English 
istory will certainly learn nothing 
ew. In other words, if one knows 
nough to understand the book (if, in- 
eed, there is something to be under- 
;ood) he need not read it; if he doesn’t, 
lere’s no use reading it either — that 
;, as far as interpretation of history is 

Time and time again Mrs. Woolf 
lays very base tricks on the reader, 
or instance, she goes exploring to find 
ut what life is, only to end a long 
assage with “. . . back we must go and 
ly straight out to the reader who waits 
-tip-toe to hear what life is — alas, we 
'on’t know.” Or she will state that 
le is goins to come to a conclusion 
pon Victorian literature in six lines, 
he starts with a few vague remarks 
nd then comes to her “final conclu- 
on, which was of highest importance 
ut which, as we have already much 
verpas.sed our limit of six lines, we 
Hist omit.” Admittedly, this could be 
very clever way of saying that these 
uestions are unanswerable; but it is a 
'neap and underhanded method of do- 
'ig .so. 'Ellis manner of leaving things 
nsaid is most prevalent in the book, 
he is “strip teasing” with ideas — with 
lot more “tease” than “strip.” 

IVlrs. Woolf, of course, retains her 
h'ry enviable characteristic of being a 
haster of prose artistry. Her sentences 
'ow like music, always balanced, al- 
'ays harmonious. But even this “per- 
bet writing” can, after a time, become 
lonotonous. W. Somerset Maugham, 
peaking of this type of prose, says that 

“It is like the sound of water lapping 
a shingly beach, so soothing that you 
presently cease to be sensible of it. It 
is so mellifluous that you hanker for 
some harshness. . . .” 

But for all its pretentiousness, Or¬ 
lando certainly is not devoid of merit. 
'Ehere is a certain magical atmosphere 
about the book that compels one’s inter¬ 
est. One has the feeling that there cer¬ 
tainly is something there if only it 
could be found. The book is cleverly 
written throughout, and at times the 
cleverness approaches profundity. 

Perhaps Mrs. Woolf herself con¬ 
tributes the most pointed observation 
about her that anyone could. 'Ehe scene 
is the last page of Orlando. Orlando is 
lying under a tree, philosophizing fanci¬ 
fully as usual, when Marmaduke Bon- 


.Moon like a warrior’s liloocly lielmct 
Shows boldly at the horizon. 

.Moon of violence, strugf^le and passion 
.Marches brazenlv np the horizon. 

.Moon like the face of a dreaming’ maiden 
Peers timidly through tlte leafless branches. 
Moon of tenderness, love and repose 
Tiptoes gently down the heavens. 

Hi V W'l AVI R 

throp Shelmerdinc, her lover who does 
nothing but sail back and forth around 
Cape Horn (“It’s about all a fellow 
can do nowadays.”), lands in an aero¬ 
plane. “And as Shelmerdine, now 
grown a fine sea captain, hale, fresh- 
coloured, and alert, leapt to the ground, 
there sprang over his head .a single 
wild bird. 

“‘It is the goose!’ Orlando cried. 
‘'Ehe wihl goose. . . .’ ” 

.And if the reader is tpiick, he mat 
feel, with Shelmenline, the fleeting 
beat of the bird’s wings upon his mind. 

The main failing of the book lies 
in the fact that X'irginia W’oolt is writ¬ 
ing about something that neither she 
nor anyone else knows vert much 
about--a condition that is not to be 
censurevl, only mildly regrettevl. 

-ROBERT I). 1.0(0118 

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HE ARCHIVE, February, 1947 


->(> (lolleiio Football For M\ Kid- 

'l\: t ,.,i t ot thiiiL seems ti> be 
. SI., u!..; .' .'r.ietice in the big 
s - ' i,s> t> .1 \. Puke is no c.\ception— 
•1 r, l’l;i\ers here, in t;iet, 

. bctti r tre.itment than they would 
Ill "t of to- ,.tlu-r well-known insti- 
for Mis. Hi.t thw business of doping up 
. d. .mklos, \ ertebrae, and knees 
isn’t .1 -d thing, an\ wax you look 

.It It. 

-\ frund of mine, who playetl wing- 
'.■>. 1 ; .it one the great and well-publi- 
-i/i'd I\\ League schools a tew tears 

irorn Pdgi' /d ) 

asro, broke his clax’icle in, the second 
i^ame. Fixe xveeks later he xx’as untaped 
and all the muscle and excess flesh on 
his arm had, of course, xvasted axvay. 
’J'xx'o liays after his untaping, the coach 
called him into his office and asked him 
why he hadn’t reported back at prac¬ 
tice. Astonished, the boy replied that 
he had just been released from the doc¬ 
tor’s care, d'he athletic association, the 
coach said, had invested $45 in a special 
pair of shoulder-guards, just for him, 
and if he xx’anted to keep his meal job 

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he had better be out for practice thatj 
a fternoon. 

The physical danger to which a player 
is subjected these days because of over- 
zealous coaches is no more harmful 
than that which is likely to influence his 

Understand, I am not adxmcating de- 
emphasis. 1 have no desire whatsoever 
to see my alma mater become the laugh¬ 
ing stock of the nation, as Chicago be¬ 
came when it ran up an unparalleled 
string of defeats. 

As a matter of fact, I am in favor 
of athletic scholarships, as long as they 
consist of hoard, room, and tuition— 
and no more. I think that any boy who 
gets clubbed around the ears five months 
out of the school year deserves finan¬ 
cial assistance in obtaining his educa¬ 

But what I do consider objectionable 
is the practice of differentiating be¬ 
tween players according to their ability, 
just as the professional teams do. In 
the pro ranks, the more valuable a man 
is the more cash he receives. In toda)'’s 
colleges it is not so much a matter of 
cash as it is extra gifts thrown in to 
keep him happy—an occasional suit of 
clothes, perhaps an automobile, or even 
a rent-free apartment for him and his 
wife. Then, too, it’s ten bucks here and 
ten bucks there. It’s been carried to such 
an extreme that coaches now offer a 
cash prize to any man who blocks a kick 
in Saturday’s game. 

When you have to put up greenbacks 
as a means of spurring a boy on to 
“greater heights” in a football game, 
it’s time to throw in the toxx'el. 

The point is this: a college football 
man today gets so accustomed to having 
people give him things for four years 
that if he bothers to consider the future: 
at all he figures it will be the same old 
bowl of cherries. Some grateful 
alumnus, he reasons, will offer him a; 
fat-salaried job. But the hitch is that 
most of these school-spirited alumni 
who never miss a game and who treat 
the boys like kings (while they’re play-j 

THE ARCHIVE, February, 1947 















124 W. Parrish 

ing) are not always willing to hire a 
slightly used left guard when what 
they really need in their firm is a first- 
rate accountant or a young man whose 
grades indicate that he knows something 
about business principles. 

I again remind you that some of the 
“evils” I’ve discussed in this piece are 
not necessarily peculiar to Duke univer¬ 
sity alone. No sir, by no means. The 
situation is nation-wide, and these same 
malpractices arc to be found in any 
conference you care to examine. 

If Arm\' and Notre Dame were on 
the level, I certainly believe that they 
were wise in suspending their gridiron 
relationship for a few seasons. In re¬ 
cent years the game had been so blown 
up by the press and the goons knowni as 
“subway alumni” that it had assumed 
the proportions of a Hilly Rose spec¬ 

Look at the bowl situation. Whereas 
the Rose Howl used to be the only one 
in existence, there are now' 19—count 
’em. What do they decide.^ Exactly 
nothing. All the\’ result in is a tidy 
bundle of cash for the schools involved 
—and no Christmas vacation for the 

Squad members at the LLiivcrsity of 
California recently demanded a fiat rate 
of $75 a month—a “decent living 
w'agc,” they .said. And California, you 
know', is supposedly one of the more 
conservative coast institutions. 

That’s how far the thing has gone— 
players are now' demanding a certain 
monthly w'age, just like coal miners or 
steel w'orkers. 

I say, phooey. 

There is not much sense in pointing 
out examples the countrv over when 
there is plentv of houscclcaning to be 
done right here at dear old Duke. He- 
fore throwing mud at other schools, it 
might be wise to sweep our own front 
porch. .And bear in mind the fact that 
the sweeping to be done here is practi¬ 
cally infinitesimal w'hen compared with 
many of .America’s “leading” universi- 
{(7nntimied on \cx1 Page) 

HE ARCHIVE, February, 1947 


—No (college Football For My Kid— 

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126 9th Street 

tics—tlie authorities of which loudly 
deplore proschting whenever given the 

It’s all verv well, I know, to beef 
about a situation anti quite another 
thing to offer a practical solutit)n. Well, 
I’m offering mine, and you can take 
it for wliat it’s worth. As a means by 
which college football can assume its 
rightful proportion, and by which the 
men who plav the game can derive the 
most from it, I propose the following: 

If you are going to give scholarships 
at all, give stars and scrubs alike the 
same deal—room, board, and tuition. 
If a man still needs help, give him a 
legitimate part-time job—and that 
doesn’t mean winding a clock or empty¬ 
ing waste-baskets. 

Discontinue the practice of incidental 
“gifts.” In the long run, you’re hurt¬ 
ing the man, not to mention the fact 
that he is considered something of an 
over-privileged ape by his fellow stu¬ 

Above all, give the game back to th( 
boys. When a football game become 
a national issue, as most of the “tradi 
tional rivalries” have become, comnier 
cialism rears its nasty head and the 2. 
young men involved assume the role 
of Christian gladiators hacking; eacl 
other apart before an arena filled witl 
howling spectators, many of whom hav( 
a few coins riding on the outcome. 

If colleges would play in their owi 
backyard—that is, maintain their foot 
ball series on a home-and-home basis— 
the publicity preceding the game wouh 
not be quite so hysterical. College; 
don’t send their teams into Yankei 
Stadium or the Polo Grounds just t 
give more people the opportunity of see 
ing good football. Don’t kid yourself 
The only motive is moola, dough, gelt 
The more customers the better—hence 
more publicity. Gate receipts buy fieh 
houses and halfbacks. 

I think football was designed to bi 
an outlet for student enthusiasm. Bu 

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Food Prepared for Parties 
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After Dining At 

Rigsbee Ave. & Corporation St. Phone F-6001 


THE ARCHIVE, February, 194 

jw the game has been taken out of the 
mds of the students to such an extent 

:heir” team. Cash customers receive 
.p priority in every respect. The de- 
res or interests of the student body 
ay a very minor part in the collegiate 
)Otball scene. 

Nope, if the present sad state of af- 
'lirs continues as far as college foot- 
ill is concerned, I don’t want my son 
. have any part of it. I’d prefer him 
ii play the game for the fun that he and 
:s fellow students would get out of it. 
definitely would not want him to play 
s heart out every Saturday afternoon 
ist to fatten the pocketbooks of thou- 
nds of morons who have money bet 
a the game and who have never seen 
le interior of a library. 

It’s a damned shame. That’s just 
hat it is. A lot of nice boys are being 
leated nowadays, and it is especially 
■sheartening when you stop to think of 
hat a great game football is—or used 
' be. 

The End 


ladows dance to twilight’s music, 
eave weird rhythms to the beat of branches, 
ladows twist in wild exulting 
n the cadence of rising wind, 
adows cree}), dispelling daylight 
otting out each gleam of sunlight, 
adows cast their gray deception, 
their depths fear comes unbidden. 

Bev We.vver 

-Has Your Arm- 

{Contumed from Ptige 17) 
je going through now to put one at 
tah State in about seven years.” 

\ .And so it goes all afternoon. .Aber- 
■en makes all the stops, large and small 
jaternitieJ; alike, and finishes up at si.x 
‘clock a mere shadow of his former 

'If. His mouth tastes like the bottom 


' a laundry bag, his ej es are bleeding, 

{Continued on Page 30) 

HE ARCHIVE, February, 1947 29 

lat at many schools their .seating sec- 
jun is behind the goalposts, from which 
lint they are expected to cheer for 

Duke University Stores 

Owned and operated for your convenience 
by Duke University 

Duke University Store 
Duke Hospital Store 
Woman’s College Store 
The Haberdashery 


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In past years we have been proud to serve the Duke 
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in aiding you to realize your high hopes for the future. 

It is our desire to continue to serve you now and in 
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and his right arm has shaken the equiv¬ 
alent ut thirtv-five innings of fast-hall 

But it was worth it. He has met them 
all, and now the only problem is to go 
hack to his room and check the fraterni¬ 
ties which impressetl him most. Easy. 
Let’s see, the one with the piano, they 
were the Mu Mu Xi’s, weren’t they.'* 
Or was that the one with the fi.xed pin¬ 
ball machine.? No, they were the Chi 
Gammas, or was it the Nu Nu Nu’s? 
(^h, hell, I can’t remember any of them. 
What am I going to do? 

While over on the other side of the 
campus, the fraternity men wash their 
grins off, break out the arm slings, and 
collapse. The large outfits tuck away 
their closest members ’til next time and 
the small ones look around for a couple 
they might have overlooked. 

’Twas a day of great accomplishment. 

The End 


For Many Years . . . 

We have had the pleasure and privilege of serving 
the University and its student body ... an asso¬ 
ciation we cherish more and more with each passing 





-Luck For You- 

(Conthmed from Page 15) 

way. A’ou can’t help it if it’s in tl 
garage. No, now I wouldn’t think c 
taking a taxi. Busses are so much mo 
quaint. But there is a taxi right ov 
there. Over there. Taxi! Taxi! f 
sees us. Let’s hurry. Don’t you thii 
it’s much better than standing out he 
waiting for a bus? 

It certainly got dark in a hurr 
Look at all the bright lights—‘lil 
tongues of flame’ as some poet sa 
once. Isn’t it beautiful, Mr. Salomar 
Call you Art? Oh, I really couldn 
It’s such a pretty name, but it woiddr 
be quite proper to call you that. As 
was saying, I guess the lights wouldr 
seem beautiful to you. That’s wh 
happens when you get used to som 
thing. It loses its beauty. Oh, you s; 
the sweetest things, Mr. Saloman. B 
it’s not true . . . you wouldn’t think 
was beautiful if you got used to ip 
Would you really? Now, now, M 
Saloman, behave yourself. Rememb 
that I just met you. No. I said no. Y( 
stay over on your own side. Oh loo| 
The cab is stopping. Is this Greenwii; 
Village? That’s right—I forgot y( 
haven’t cashed your check yet. Wh 
will we do? Well, I guess I ha 
enough. How much? That’s terrib 
expensive just for a little taxi ride, 
guess we should have taken the bi 
Now don’t worry about it. After a 
such a prominent man as you shouldr 
let a little thing like that worry yo 
You can pay me back later. 

Oh, this is a cute place. How d 
you ever think of it? I hope we can g 
a table. You know the manager? Nc' 
isn’t that fortunate. You must kne 
everyone in New York. I bet you: 
better known than the Mayor. Yi 
know the Mayor too? I just can’t 1- 
lieve it. There’s the manager—!) 
speak to him. It’s a different one? (i 
dear. I wonder what he was fired fi. 
Well, we’ll just have to make frieri 
with this one. 

Here’s a lovely table. I do wi 

THE ARCHIVE, February, 19i 

hey had a dance finor in here. But I 
:uess that would ruin the atmosphere. 
>s, of course I’ll excuse you—I do 
ope you can get that check cashed. 

Back so soon? Did you get it cashed? 
’hat’s fine. I looked at the menu while 
oil were gone and you’ll never guess 
,'hat I found. Filet mignon! And in 
little place like this. Isn’t that lucky? 
'ou’re not hungry? Oh, but really, Mr. 
aloman, don’t you want some filet 
liirnon? No, of course I don’t mind 
F you have a sandwich, but I do wish 
ou would join me. Should we have a 
bcktail first? Well, I think I will any- 
/ay. One champagne cocktail, please. 

' You know, I can’t get over how I 
new a Mr. Saloman in Grand Forks, 
ire you sure you don’t have any rela- 
'ves there? Miami Beach? No, I 
'on’t know any Salomans down there, 
i winter home! But how can you 
fford two homes? 'Fhree? When do 
bu go to the one in Maine? My, you 
uist be a very worldly man. Don’t you 
et tired of travelling? Well, I guess 
• wouldn’t either. No, I’ve never been 
broad. Oh yes, do tell me about Paris. 
)o they have pretty clothes there? You 
:rtainly are fortunate to have been all 
ver Europe, Mr. Saloman. Well, 
Ge’s our dinner already. Um-m-m, 
oesn’t the filet mignon look delicious? 
sn’t that strange—you are the first per- 
in I’ve ever heard of that doesn’t like 
'. But everyone to their own tastes I 
[ways say. 

I really don’t care what we do after- 
'ards. It’s up to you. But I’ve heard 
) much about the Stork Club; I won- 
‘?r if I would like that. You don’t? 
Yell, there are a lot of other places 
I've heard of. What about—pardon? 

| ()ur apartment? Oh dear, it’s a shame 
Uur friends are staying there, because 
j really would like to see it. A ball- 
bom in the apartment? Oh, it sounds 
iist like the movies! But as I was say- 
|ig, we could go to the St. Regis Roof. 
;:>h, you have a hotel room while your 
|riends are in your apartment? No, I 
pn’t think I would like to go there, 
tlr. Saloman, I really wish you would 

let go of my hand. After all, what will 
people think? "^’es, I know we could 
have a few drinks up there, but can’t 
we drink at St. Regis? Now really, 
I don’t see why you don’t like places 
like that. No, I don’t agree. I abso¬ 
lutely refuse to go. I guess we had 
better call it a day, Mr. Saloman. Fin¬ 
ish your sandwich and we’ll leave. I 
have to go meet a girl friend of mine 
anyway in a little while, and I guess 
it would be better if we didn’t go an}- 
where from here. And it’s been a big 

da\-I’d better go to bed early. Let’s 

see—I think I’ll have crepe suzettes for 
dessert. You don’t want any? Aren’t 
you feeling well, Mr. Saloman? Oh 
dear, that’s a shame. Waiter, I’ll have 
crepe suzettes, please. 

Before I leave you, I want to telj 
you what a big thrill it has been to me 
to meet such a distinguished man as you. 
My mother probably won’t believe me 
when I tell her that you showed me 
around New ^'ork. And you were so 
nice to spend your time doing it. I 
wish there was some way I could repay 
you, Mr. Saloman. If you’re ever in 
Grand Forks be sure and look me up— 
Ivan is the name—Helen Marie Ivan. 
And I can’t thank you enough for this 
delicious dinner. I certainly will re¬ 
member New ^’ork as the most hos¬ 
pitable city I have ever been in. 

Mr. Saloman, you’re not talking very 

much. Are you sure you wouldn’t like 
some of my crepe suzette? Well then, 
what’s the matter? I do hope you’re 
not mad about me not soing^ to the hotel 
with you, but I’ve thought it over and 
I’ve decided I just wouldn’t have 
enough time. In fact, I really should 
be going now. Don’t bother taking me 
anywhere. '^Yu stay here and pay the 
check and I’ll just catch a cab outside. 
Good-bye, .Mr. Saloman—.Arthur— 
and thank you again for being so sweet. 
Oh my, do you think you could pay me 
for those drinks and the cab? I’m 
afraid I don’t have any change for the 
taxi. Yes, that’s about right—thank 
you again. 

Now where’s the door to this place. 
Oh, here it is . Hope it isn’t raining out¬ 
side. Nope. Just a little cold. Oh 
well, I can walk. Now let’s see—he 
looks quite prosperous. Oops! Pardon 
me. I didn’t mean to bump into you. 
'Fhis is my first trip to New A’ork, and 
I’m afraid I’m a little lost. .Are you 
going anywhere in particular? Hotel 
Pennsylvania? Well now, isn’t that 
luck for you. It just so happens that 
that is where I’m going too. Isn’t it 
funny the way I ran into you out of 
all the people in New AYrk? By the 
way, have you ever been to the Cafe 
Rouge of the Pennsylvania? I hear it 
is just beautiful! 

The End 

HE ARCHIVE, February, 1947 

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THE ARCHIVE Is Your Magazine—Tor 
You and by You. If You Want any of Your 
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THE ARCHIVE, February, 19 

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loup’s On... 

\ )>ii'turi' I'ln IT iiUriitliu'i.> V he Archive 
nr tin- tir>l time lliis \lll\i)ii>;li 
i.i> .ii i'lv I'll, M)iiu' of ns still clirrish iho mcni- 
T\ of nurli.iin'- titii'o iiii lii'S ot snou . l or 
li.ix- who ilon’i til l ;it homi' w ilhoiii ,i llitK' 
MOW .Mill tor ihoM- who l\:i\i' |usl situ it 
or tlu- first tinu'. The Aieh'ive iifoscnts .i 
if wliitir si'itti's from jts voai'-roimd .111)11111. 
lohiiin Morfit is ri-siioiisihlo tor tin- .irlistic 
■ hots. 

Literary Hors D’Oeuvres... 

riu- M.irih i.ssiR' introiliuos a now foatiiro. 
■'.Vraps for tho I.itorati,” pontioil 1 )V \orsa- 
tilo Hob Loomis, inoliiilos briof oommonts 
on what is on in tho world of writers 

and is on.irantood to w hot your litorarv .ippo- 


E\or boon to an ol’ fashiottod hor.sopiill' 
If you hat'on’t, Joati .-Vnijovino’s storv will 
introduce you to a custom which has alwavs 
I'layed an important jaart in tho recreation 
of country folk. Joan shows us somothing' 
that is usually true of such contests, namely, 
that the confiiit behind the scenes is oftcti 
more important than the contest itself. 
I hroadod w ith humor, “ I he Hor.sepull” is 
just the thing to start your literary repast. 

.Another now author, Fred Wagner, comes 
into print with this i.ssue. 11 is storv, “This 
Is It,” should give you many chuckles, not 
milv o\or the adolescent antics of the hero 
I' he tries lu .ill.tin .1 sembl.mce ul m.iithood, 
bill .ilso through ihe eccenllic boh. i\ tor ol 
the middle-,igiil worn.111 who seems more in- 
teresied in him than 111 his lawn-mowing'. 

Bill Snifger returns again, and this time 
with a sketch whose mood of deep sorrow 

is sure to .itfeit the most hard-boiled reader. 
Hill is reiogni/ed as being one of the best 
writers about lampus, atid there’s certainly 
no dissen.ion among the editors about the 
merit of this piece. We’re .ilvs.iys glad to 
'■ee Mill in these pagO's. 

Short Smeets... 

1 he three poems featured on Ihe Poet’s 
Page are xer.satile in mood. “C'omment ot a 
Fisherman” is by a former Duke student, 
who is now doing graduate work at Har¬ 
vard. He has awariled us the privilege of 
))rinting here one of his most successful 
undergraduate efforts. Lewis Buck, also an 
alumnus and a veteran contributor to The 
Archive, depicts in “Threnody” the delight¬ 
ful transition of .seasons from winter to 
spring. Jeanne Eagles, possibly inspired by 
the recetit recital given by the .Modern Dance 
(iroup, gives the novice ititerjireter an idea 
of what moderti dance is. 

^^iforial Staff 

ViRciNiA Anne Gunn, Editor 
Davu) W. Fick, Associate Editor 

Mon Loomis and Pi t.i.v TiiRfiNi 

Assist nut Editors 

Mi 'i sv John Hi ri.i v, Em/ inuy^i f'.dito/r 
Joan .Ani.i vini , Poetry Editor 


Marion Bi nni it 
Jounnv' Mori It 
Joi L)i Mona 
Cynthia Barrh.i 
(Jordon Nazor 
Pete Wii.e 
Pa'I WlMlil RI.I V 
Krirv Morrison 

Ni l) .Martin 
B on .Aeeen 
B on Parks 
Marion Fox 
C' l.ARiNci Brown 
Bill. Snitger 
Sai.i.v Mowmaee 
Chari II Svdnor 

asm ess 


John Pa pric k Dorsey, Business Mnnager 
Fran Hudson, Assistant Business Manager 
Dee Centner, Coed Business Manages 
Bill Bryant, Advertising Manager 
Hampton Frady, Circulation Manager 


Tirri Stevvare 
Bi i iy BaylisS 
Sara Huckle 
.Margaret Frans 
Kay Lauir 
Sis Watson 
Geneviev'e Parks 
Typists: Nancy 

(' 1 1A R M1A N 

Marg Colvin 
CJloria Koi.tinsky 
Shireey Dick 
Jane Matthaus 
Nancv Kousseau 
Jane ScARnoRoucii 
Sandy Jones 
Seim Baird, 

Ki si I R, 

Scat 1 s 

Till.; AKClIIVi:. March. 1*)47 


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Philip (.1 riirrdtioii of I ipri'i W'^vlic 
ll;is .1 Ili'W one out tills iiioiilll, A'.f.UM' <>'i 
Mornh. It slioulil mII pivttv well just 
on the reputation of its predecessor, ’I'he 
Efui\ took about three months to write, 
which is the longest he says he has ever 
spent ()n one book. That isn’t so aston¬ 
ishing, however, when you consider that 
Wylie has averaged a million words a 
year for the last ten years, and that 
once, under pressure, he turned out a 
25,00(l-word novelette in one day. On 
the other hand, most authors are lucky 
if they can complete one page a day. 
Flaubert, when he was working on 
Madame Bovaryy thought himself for¬ 
tunate if he finished twenty pages or 
less in a month, working seven hours 
a day. But, then, look at the difference. 


SIl.dRP Rrt’/.OR . . . 

W. Somerset Maugham’s I'hc Ra¬ 
zor's Edge now has passed Gone With 
the IVind in sales. Both books together 
add up to something over 6,000,000 
copies sold, d hat’s a lot of reading, son. 

T/.V’T CAIN ABEL? . . . 

Someone commented that James The 
Postman Cain had made his characters 
break every commandment but one. 
None of them yet has made a graven 
image. But maybe that’s a little tame, 
ehr ... And speaking of Cain, his 
new one. The Butterfly, has been having 
its share of attention from the review¬ 
ers. We have a sneaking suspicion that 
he stirred ’em up a bit when he wrote 

the following in his introduction: “I 
think 111 ) stories have some cpiality of 
the <)|>ening of ;i forbidden box— and 
that it is this, rather than violi nce and 
sex . . . that gives them the <lrive so 
often noted.” Qh, come now. 


William Steig might as well draw, a 
self-portrait for his Lonely Ones. An 
Atlanta reviewer panned his new car¬ 
toon book. Till Death Do I d Part, 
thusly: “This is a dull book made up 
of silly cartoons and even sillier cap¬ 
tions. It is a sheer waste of paper in 
these days of pitiful shortage. There 
is an inane ‘appendix’ which is neither 
pertinent nor amusing. Save your 
money.” Brother, you’ve had it! 

(Continued on Page 16) 




Student Supplies — Radios & l*lioiio^raph Records 
Kodaks & Photo^rapliic Supplies — (laiidies — Drujjs 
To!)aeco — Foiiiitaiii laiiieheoiiette 
Cosmetics & IVrfuui(\s 

Meredith Moore—’32 

Open Mon.-Sat. 9;00 A M.—11:00 P.M. 
Sun. 12:00 Noon—11:00 P.M. 

O. G. Sawyer—’23 


THE ARCHIVE, March, 1947 


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:^' , (f ' /!s - ' 

March, 1947 

Volume 60 

Number 6 

In This Issuer 

'I'nis Mdniii p,i(re 1 

Scraps for ihk Ln kra i i page 2 

/f Fcnturr b\ Hoh Looinis 

Archie Speaks . page 5 

The Horsepui.i. page 6 

A Storx h\ Jonn Angemnr 

The Poet’s Page page 9 

This Is It page 10 

A Stor\ by Fred R. Wegner 

Fields Where Roses Fade page 12 

A Sketch b\ William Snitger 








The publication of articles on controversial topics does not necessarily mean that the Editor or the Uni¬ 
versity endorses them. The names and descriptions of all characters in the fiction of this magazine are 
fictitious. Any resemblance to any person or persons is not intended and is purely coincidental. 

Notice of entry: “Acceptance for mailing at special rate of postage provided for in Section 1103, Act of 
October 3, 1917. Authorized December A, 1924.” Entered as second-class mail matter at the 
Post Office at Durham. N. C. 


C<>p)'riglu, M.'Ufli, 1947, In’ folin P.itrick Dorsey 

A Monthlx Magazine Riiblishrd 
b\ the Students at Duke I ni, er- 
sity, Durham, \nrth (larntnia. 

THK ARCHIVE, March. 1947 


‘‘Say It With Flowers'' 

llie DiiYal nackell Way is very simple! 

1. Phono L-IXio 

‘2. Toll us ro(M|)ioiit's nanio and addooss. 
l\. Toll ns kind of flowors dosii'od. 

4. Toll us oard to ho onolosod. 

5. Toll us your nanio and hox number. 

Wo will dolivor your flovvors, charg-e them, and mail you statement first of 

following month. 

Daiiee Deeoratioiis a Speeialty 


Automatic revolving crystal balls, spot bulbs in colors, flood lights, large movable spot lights for 
following dancers on the floor, or spotting singers or special entertainers, color wheels for beauti¬ 
ful and subdued lighting effects, fringes, festoonings, balloons, flags, shields and coconut palm 


117 N. Mangum St, 
(Opposite Duke Power Co.) 
Phone L-965 

Hours: 8:30 A.M. till 6 P.M. 


Washington Duke Lobby 
Phone F-101—Ext.: Flower Shop 
Hours 1 P.M. till 8 P.M. 

Sat. 1 P.M. till 10 P.M. 


THE ARCHIVE, March, 1947 



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Archie Speaks 

At a recent dance held in tlie Men’s 
Gym, we watched one character in par¬ 
ticular with a great deal of fascination. 
WanderiiiLT around the dance floor from 
couple to couple, he would grasp an 
astonished coed by the arm, peer intently 
in her face, then mutter “Nope!” and 
move on to the next couple. 

Finally our curiosity could stand it 
no longer. “Pardon, friend,’ we in¬ 
quired, “hut what in the world arc you 
doing? ” 

He wheeled on us with a look of 
anguish in his eye. “Well, it’s so dark 
and I forgot my bifocals tonight and—” 
here his voice almost cracked with hys¬ 
teria “—and I can’t recognize a single 

Lucky boy. We had to wave a five 
dollar bill behind the back of one fc- 
mali' Mahatma Gandhi for three whole 
numbers before some forlorn individual 
took us up. “I’ve got to,” he whispered 
despairingly. “I’m working my way 
through college! ” 

* * * 

We heard about one fellow who 
wins hands down the first prize— 
an Ink Spots’ record of “Saturday 
Night Blues”—in the sad story-of- 
the-month contest. 

Seems that after months of pa¬ 
tiently trying to find a phone on 
campus that was in working order, 
waiting his turn in line, dialing 
5221 and getting the busy signal, 
and hearing the sugar-sweet “Sor¬ 

ry! Any message?” he finally got 
hold of his girl, and she very gen¬ 
erously reserved her first available 
night for him, 

Alas! On consulting his calen¬ 
dar he discovered he would be 
graduated before time for the 

* * * 

Our Big Wheel correspondent re¬ 
ports nuthoritntivcly that Roll-Along I)i 
Mona has now turned his attention to 
bigger things and is negotiating with 
Harry James for the Triad dance in 
May. We can .see the hand bills now: 
—Joe Di Mona Presents— 
Biggest Event of the Year! 

Di Monad Dance 
Dance chairman: Joe Di Mona 
.Arrangements: Joe Di Mona 
(Added attraction: H. James & Band) 
♦ * * 

The story goes that a Duke man, 
a State man, and a Carolina man 
were down at Oscar’s Green Per¬ 
simmon the other day, amicably 
having a beer together. All of a 

sudden a fly happened to fall into 
each of their beers at the same 
time, just by coincidence. 

With a look of distaste the Duke 
man dipped his spoon into the 
glass and removed the offending 
* creature. 

The State man reached over and 
casually flipped out his fly. 

The Carolina man, how'ever, 
carefully picked out his insect and 
shook it thoroughly over his glass 
before throwing it away. 

* * * 

“I'our-fifths of freshman cl.iss 
pledge f raternities.” — Cmronici.f 
news item. 

This set us to wondering. Suppose 
that proportion held true for the whole 
school. If the relative size of each of 
the various fraternities remained the 
same as it now is, by using some simple 
arithmetic (a w'orking knowledge of 
calculus would be sufficient) it is evident 
that fraternal groups numbering in the 
hundreds would be entireU likely. 

From here it is a simple matter to 
visualize a ttpical meeting of B.iter 
.Ater Mater, Bromo Seltzer chapter. 
The president is speaking. 

“The meeting will now come to or¬ 
der. We will have the roll call.” 

Forty-five minutes later. “Let’s get 
on with the btisiness. AA’e’ll now' have 
the committee reports.” 

the archive, March, 1947 

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Some People, Like Grandpa, Prefer Being 
Martyred to Preserving Their Stubbornness 

I ^} 1RI' S Hist OIK' thing Gr.indp.t 

(.■.iii’t st.iiul, and that’s to think that 
soiiK'oiu' I'isc is smarter tlian lie is. I 
e.ill liim Ciiandpa heeause that’s what 
.ill the ehililren call him and everyone 
eKe In the house just sort of picked it 
u|i. lie’s really my hrother. Rut that’s 
hesule the point. .'\s I say, Grandpa 
can’t hear to hi' outdone. He gets as 
mad as a hornet if he thinks someone 
else knows .1 little more than he does. 
.Ma\he that’s just because he’s getting 
old. Anyway, I think this feeling of his 
was the cause of everything, that hap¬ 
pened last summer. 

It all started the week that Jimmy 
got home for summer Vacation from 
this agricultural school he’s going to. I 
guess it must’ve been the end of May 
because it was the same time I caught 
my confounded heel going down the 
cellar stairs so that I had to trundle 
myself around in a wheelchair for the 
next two months. Jimmy had just fin¬ 
ished his freshman year and was about 
to burst w'ith new ideas on how to do 
things around here on the farm. Al¬ 
most right away, Grandpa began to 

“Humph!” he said to me one day. 
“Do you know what that young whip- 
persnapper wants his father to do now?” 

“What?” I asked, just to humor him. 

“He wants to get rid of the pump, 
that’s what he wants to do! He wants 
to have the water piped over from town. 
.All the way across that mountain! Now' 
how ill tarnation iloes he think that can 
iu' done?” 

“Weil,” I said, “maybe he knows 
what he’s i.'iikiiig .'liiout. After .'ill, he’s 
bci'ii to .'ig.'u ultur.'il coilege for ii year 

“Humph! I hat doesn’t make him 
a plumber, does it?” he retaliated and 
then stalked away with his hands clasped 
behind his back and his heavy white eye¬ 
brows fuirowed. 

.'\ tew days later, as I was sitting on 
the front porch, I heard a small, thrash¬ 
ing sound from around the corner of the 
house. I knew, even before I could see 
him, that it was Grandpa. He always 
brushes his cane, which he doesn’t need 
at all but carries for effect, through the 
hedge or in the grass when he gets mad 
or even slightly provoked. As soon as 
he came around the corner, I could see 
that he was more than slightly provoked. 
His patched gray trousers were caught 
here and there with pieces of long grass, 
and he was clutching in his hand a 
sizable clod of black dirt which he 
thrust under my nose. 

“Do you know what that is?” he de¬ 
manded wildly. 

“What?” I asked. 

“That,” he proclaimed with a look 
of unbelief on his face, “is what my 
grandson, my own flesh and blood, 
thinks the potatoes should be planted 

I >> 

“What are they planted in now?” 
I inquired meekly. 

“The west field, of course, where 
else?” He was talking louder now and 
thrashing his cane through the air for 
lack of any bushes. “And now Jimmy 
wants to plant them in the north field.” 

He stopped, waiting, I suppose, for 
some look of horror to pass over my 
face. None passed. His shoulders seemed 
to sag a little and he let the dirt sift 
through his fingers. 


“Humph!” he said and turned and 
walked away. 

It wasn’t until the next week though 
that the whole thing really came to a 
head. Up to this point Grandpa had 
just walked around, mumbling under 
his breath or complaining to me. .\^ 
far as I know, the rest of the famil\ 
had no idea of how he felt. Hut when 
Grandpa finally did reveal his opinion 
on the subject to them, it was in a u.i\ 
quite different from what I had ex¬ 

It was one evening in early June. 
Supper was ready and everyone was sit¬ 
ting down at the hig, square table in the 
middle of the kitchen; everyone, that is, 
except Jimmy. He had driven the truck 
into town for some fertilizer and 
hadn’t come back yet. I rolled thi 
wheelchair over to my place heside 
Grandpa who was already surveying tin 
food with impatience. Jimmy’s father, 
who always said grace before w'e ate, 
was in the middle of “. . . and bless 
these gifts bestowed by Thee” when I 
heard the truck pull up next to the 
house. Jimmy looked flushed and ex¬ 
cited when he came into the kitchen. 

“Hey! Ya know what?” he asked. 

“What?” said Grandpa. 

“Sit down and eat your supper,” 
.Mary, who is Jimmy’s mother, said. 

Jimmy sat down at his place between 
Helen and Dorothy, his two younger 

“Well,” he went on, “while I w e 
in town I saw some posters advertising 
the big Fourth of July celebration 
they’re having.” > 

“When?” Grandpa interrupted. 

I nudged him with m\' left elbow. 

“He still,” I s.'ild. Jimnn laughed. 


THE ARCHIVE, March, 1947 

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Grandpa gesticulated with his cane toward the truck on which Moses and Liza were being placed. 

“Ami there’s going to be a horse- 
iill,” he went on. I’ve always thought 
orsepulls foolish. 'Ihey consist of 
everal pairs of mammoth beasts tugging 
oiisecutivel)' heavier bags of sami on 
vodiien platforms called stoneboats. 
The horses get tiled, the drivers get 
ired, ;ind the winner gets twenty-five 
jollars, wliicli just .about covers tlie ex¬ 
tense ot transporting the animals to and 
Tom the scene of the contest. Ilut I 
:new Jimm\’ going to say. 

“I think I’ll enter witli Maxine and 
AM1\,” 111' eotu'luded. “I know I 
|.vin! ” 

j “\\’h\, I think that’s a good ide.a,” 
.fimmy’s father said enthusiastically. 

“Yes,” everyone chorused. 

Grandpa said nothing. He shifted 
suspiciously in his chair and he had a 
strange look in his eye. I had a sud¬ 
den feeling of impending disaster. I 
looked down at my plate and tried to 
concentrate on my mashed potatoes. 

“Well,” Grand|)a said nonclialantly, 
“I guess I’ll have to go down to the 
barn and have a little look at Moses and 
Liza. ^ ep, guess that’s what I’ll have 
to do.” 

Everyone looked quite puzzled. 
“W’hy?” two or throe of tiiem asked. 

“If tliere’s goin’ to be .i good, old- 
fashioned horsepull, I’m gom’ to be in 
it, that’s for sure' ” 

Jimmy’s father snorted. Helen gig¬ 

“Oh, Grandpa!” Mary said. 

Then Jimmy made a mistake. He 
kind of laughed. Grandpa stood up and 
I suddenly recognized the strange look 
in his eye as determination. He stared 
straight at his grandson. 

“Hum|ih!” he said. “I sup|i<)se they 
taught you all sorts of high-fallutin’ 
methods of winnin’ horsepulls too! 
W’ell, listen to me, young man. I’m 
goin’ to show you that ton don’t know 
everything vet!” .And with that he 
turned .and stalked out of tiu room. 
Grandpa also likes to be dramatic. 

During the next few weeks, the fam- 

rHE ARCHIVE, March, 1947 


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V tried every way imaginable to dissu- 
,1c Grandpa from entering the pull, 
mmy’s fatlu-r reminded him that he 
asn’t as young as he used to be. Mary 
tempted the ethical angle and insisted 
at it just wasn’t the right thing to do. 
clcn unwittingly suggested that they 
ittlc it out in a game of checkers, 
mmy even offered not to enter it him- 
If if Grandpa wouldn’t. Hut Grand- 
I was not to he swaj’cd. He spent his 
' me personally looking after Moses and 
iza, the two huge work horses, getting 
lem in shape for the eventful day. It 
as a ludicrous sight to watch both he 
ad Jimmy start out for the barn each 
lorning, Jimmy trying to act perfectly 
atural about the whole thing and 
irandpa still with that determined 
learn in his eye. But it w'as hard for 
le family to accept the situation, and 
y the time the Fourth of July came, 
veryone had worked himself up into 
ever pitch. 

The day was bright and clear and I 
It on the back porch in the morning 
inlight and watched as Jimmy and 
jrandpa loaded the four big horses into 
le two trucks. Grandpa was waving 
is cane in the air and shouting orders 
5 the handyman helping them. But 
immy was rather quiet. Up to this 
oint I hadn’t endeavored in any way 
i talk Grandpa out of entering the pull. 

had just relaxed and hoped secretly 
lat he would change his mind. But 
ow I decided I would say something. 

“Grandpa!” I shouted across the 
ard, and had to repeat myself five 
imes before he finally came. “Are you 
eally going to go through with this.^” 
He looked at me incredulously, his 
I'hite hair lying sparsely on his head. 

“Now why in tarnation would I be 
loin’ all that,” and he gesticulated 
vith his cane toward the truck on which 
doses and Liza were being loaded, “if 
didn’t expect to go through with it.^” 
“But, Grand|ia,” I said, deciding to 
ppeal to his sympathy, “don’t you re- 
lizc how much winning this horsepull 
vould mean to Jimmy? You’re mak- 
ag it awfully hard for him.” 

“Hard for him! Humph! 'Fhat 
young whippersnapper needs someone 
to show him a thing or two!” 

Seeing that even I couldn’t dissuade 
him, I let him go back to his supervising 
without another word. I didn’t realize 
then what an important part I to 
play after all in the final outcome of 
the whole thing. 

T he family had quite a hard time 
transporting both me and my wheel¬ 
chair to the horsepull, and so it was 
almost one o’clock by the time we ar¬ 
rived at the field just the other side of 
town where it was to take place. Two 
strings stretched about a hundred feet 
along the levelest part of the ground, 
and I surmised that it was within the 
confines of these strings that the horses 
were to do their pulling. Mary sug¬ 

gested that I sit a few yards back from 
the strings on a small incline, and sta¬ 
tioned Dorothy next to my wheelchair 
to take care of me. The crowd was be¬ 
ginning to gather, but most of the peo¬ 
ple recognized my handicap and didn’t 
stand in front of me. Jimmy and 
Grandpa had come earlier in the trucks 
and were over with the six other con¬ 
testants, hitching the stoneboats and pre¬ 
paring, in general, for the beginning 
of the pull. Grandpa was strutting 
around sel f-confidently and Jimmy was 
looking unhappicr by the minute. I saw 
him lean over and say something to 
Grandpa and Grandpa shook his head 
violently. I settled back and actually 
found myself hoping that one of the 
other contestants would win. 

'Fhe pull finally started. Some man 
with a distinct nasal twang announced 
the names of the contestants and the 

weight of their teams over a loud 
speaker, and then the fight w.i. on. One 
after the other of the teams pulled the 
first allotted weight the rctpiin d twenty 
feet. More sandbags were piled on the 
stoneboats, the crowd cheered wildly for 
their particular friends in the contest, 
someone set off a firecracker, and the 
pull went on. 'Flicn, as the weight on 
the stoneboat increased, one after the 
other of the teams were unable to pull 
it and had to drop out. At last there 
were only three contestants left: Jimmy, 
Grandpa, and some little man who ap¬ 
peared to need a shave. 

“Hurray for Mr. Nelson!” someone 
in the crowd yelled, and, assuming Mr. 
Nelson to be the be-whiskered man since 
our name is Brown, I yelled “Hurray 
for Mr. Nelson!” too, and fervently 
prayed he would win. 

But, as luck would have it, Mr. Nel¬ 
son’s team all but collapsed when an¬ 
other sandbag was thrown on the 
stoneboat, and so Jimmy and Grandpa 
remained. Another load and then an¬ 
other were thrown on the boats and still 
neither team gave in. I sat there ex¬ 
pecting the worst. If Graiulpa won, 
Jimmy would be brokenhearted, and, 
if Jimmy won. Grandpa would become 
so obstinate that there would be no 
living with him. There seemed to be 
no way it could end happily. .And then 
the unexpected occurred. 

Jimmy’s team had just finished pull¬ 
ing a four-ton load twenty feet, and 
the men in charge were heaving sand¬ 
bags onto Grandpa’s stoneboat to make 
the load equal. Grandpa stood on the 
small platform and shouted to his 
horses, d'hey lunged forward, pawing 
the ground, the stoneboat with Grand¬ 
pa on it dragging behind them. It was 
at that moment that some friend of 
Dorothy’s called to her and she turned, 
letting go of the back of my wheel¬ 
chair. For a minute I didn’t realize 
what was happening, and then I saw I 
was rolling slowly down the incline 
toward the runway. Out of the corner 
of my eye I saw’ Grandjia's team com- 
(Continued on Pngr 15) 

THE ARCHIVE. March, 1947 


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Thcj nPoet’s Tage^ 


Comment of a F/sherman 

rhc lull .Mine s-illoi’iiis: niul. r {greenish 
rliuuls .uul elnl'i'ing- on eiilorotle 
lir.inclics ;ui.l llu' j^recner lake. 

It livc.s, 

hero in llic niiiul, a.i a stippling- of water. 

riiey were astonishing and ineffective, 

■he \ iolent tiny eruptions: 
ri.ishing Inirhles, \\ hite-lineil pockets 
n an element of green or grey-green felt; 
rthite pockets, or a novel pox of light, 
ir cannon putfs in dusky groves of olives. 

.■)ne knew that the hail was water, it was 

;one wrong in a cold-mass, in the blue slabs 
of air: 

me knew that it would melt, catfish and bass 
iccept it then, accept this stranger-violence 
o summer’s violence, as one has to accept 
gonies of a gone war melted 
o the lesser agony of peace. 

The green light crept to the woods: the ruddy 

linked and strutted as if he had been there 

le had not been there: he had had no part 
n the time of .shadow and one know it. 
hero had boon no backing of the sun’s 
heroic splendor 

nd this was the first time tentacles of the sun 
ad reached and handled and blown light 

rcen and white and purple through the 

he deception puzzled. One could hardly 

Jgust summer crystalled to the angular 
ngry qualities of hail. 

Ralph Nash 
April 7, 1945 



having made the land 



itself effete, 
and in its ambient 
white shroud 

Warm winds whisper, 
sun taught, 

a paean 

to the death of Death, 

And willow leaves, called 
from the grave 
by the elegy of the wind, 
in gay processions 






down the road j 







down the road; 

and slender willow leaves 






down the road, 
to bury Death. 

Lewis A. Buck 

Modern Dance 

1. Release 


Rigid, pierced with arrows. 

Choking . . . biting dust. 

Eyes empty sockets. 

Lips half parted, 

Skin, taut . . . burning. 

Cool water . . . damp clover . . . 

dew drops . . . pastel skies— 
Swirling clouds . . . soft blue satin. 

2. “Puck” 

Wild dancing whimsy. 

Whirling, blithe, and merry— 
Stretching . . . leaping. 

Icy rain with sun and shadows, 
Flimsy . . . flaunting tinsel. 

3. Mood 

Torrid, swaying, beating rhythm— 
Mad with music— 

Flames, white heat 
Dashing, scraping, scratching, bow¬ 

Fired with thunder. . . . 
Violent burning. 

Soft now, soothing . . . blue 

Where grass is green, and delicate 

Drape in patterns from tree 

Power swaying 
Passion of movement 
Fierce and gentle. 

Ey Jeanne Eagles 

he archive, March, 1947 


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J^OLAND MA\"N()R kicked nt the 
piece of loose brick protruding from 
the uneven stretch of pavement, discov¬ 
ered a few seconds later from the 
'prained feeling in his big toe that the 
Nrick wasn’t loose, and uttered a dis- 
.'ouraged mutter of surprise. Just like 
“Vervthing else in this town, he decided, 
nothing is what it si'ems. FIc walked 
'111 down the pavanunt, letiiiut tiu- 
caleidoscopic shadows of the sun tlirough 
Ithe leaves pass over him unnoticed, and 



looked carefully at the numbers of the 
houses. 'Fwo hundred and sixty-five, he 
muttered the words half aloud. 'I'wo 
hundred and sixty-five East Main Street. 
A thin ray of sunlight pierced the leaves. 
Hashing across his eyes. He paused and 
glanced around. Maybe I won’t have 
to work after all, he thought. Maybe 
tiiey’re going to move <ir m.iylie a blight struck till' gr.iss ;md there \\(>uldn’t 
he .any use in cutting it. lie stood still, 
enjoyinti the ide.a ot going hotiic and 

sleeping some more. 

Soon he became vaguely aware that 
someone on a bike had stopped at the 
curb. “Rol}!” a delighted voice 
shrieked. Roland knew who it with¬ 
out turning his head. Maxine I'uller. 
No one else would go on calling him 
‘Rol\’ after he had been awa\ .it mili¬ 
tary school for ,a \ lli looked 
sti.aight .ahead. “Hello, M.axie,’’ he S.aid 
coldl\ .and then turned to st.are at her. 
“Hello, Maxie, what’s newf” 

THE ARCHIVE, March, 1947 

-fw* ^ '43 ■ 

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'R^lituci wanted to he a man, euen at the expense of being 
}ianghty—-hnt not at the expense of being caughtj. 

M.i.xii.’, ns iisiinl, was rniptinii in ;m 
(tviTnlnincInncc of liiirh spirits. “Gosh, 
Roh,” slu' snid. “I hanlly recognized 
\(iii. W' \\ ith tlie overnlls and every- 
thint:. ^On m\ei‘ useil to over¬ 
alls, did your” 

“No,” Rol.ind said tenseU, “I ncvei' 
did.” H e \\ islud she v^'ould go aw.iy. 

“It \\asn’t just Wdien I 
ndini; b\ I thought the hack ot your 
head lookeil familiar, hut then I looked 
down .It \our hod\ and I said to my¬ 
self, ‘No, that can’t be Roly—he’s too 
thin.’ But it was tou, and I guess now 
we’I I have to find .something else to call 

\ Oil. 

Roland felt like pushing Maxie off 
her bike. He knew' she could alwajs 
be counted on to say the most annoying 
things possible, “^’ou might try calling 
me ‘Roland,’ ” he snapped. “ I'liat’s my 

M axie looked .at him qucstioningly. 
“Oh, come off it. Roly. What’s the 
matter with your Just because you’ve 
been oti at military school doesn’t mean 
that you’ve suffered amnesia or some¬ 
thing. ^’ou know you’ll always turn 
around when someone calls ‘Roly- 
poly.’ ” 

“I hate that name,” Roland said 
icil\, wishing he could bare his teeth. 

.Maxie ignored his ferocitt . “I guess 
we can’t call you that any more. It just 
doesn’t fit.” She leaned ovei" from the 
bike and poked him in the stomach. 
“You’re sharp, kid.” She hesitated for 
a second. “But what have you got on 
those overalls forr” 

Roland groaned. Maxie w’as a pest, 
but she might s\’m|iathize with him. “I 
have to go cut Dr. Bregar’s lawn. His 
sister is a friend of mother’s and she 
said Mrs. Bregar couldn’t find anybody 
to cut the lav\n so now I h.ive to t^o 
jilo it.” 




Maxie stored away the information 
tor future repetition. “Do you know 
.Mrs. Bregarr” she asked. 

“No. Didn’t she use to be the doc¬ 
tor’s secretary r ” 

.Maxie snickeretl. “Yes. She’s sup- 
posed to be (|uite a person. Mom says 
that the house is ;i monstrosity, but Mrs. 
Bregar is real proud of it and shows 
eseryhody around.” 

Roland changed the subject. “I hate 
wearing these over.ills; they’re too 

“You don’t look at all bad in them. 
Not so dignified, either.” She ran her 
fingers through her blonde hair, cut in 
a Dutch-boy bob. “But don’t you no¬ 
tice something different about me.''” 

Roland looked her over. He couldn’t 
see an)- changes. Women shouldn’t ask 
such cjuestions, anywa). If they wanted 
you to know something, why didn’t 

they come right out and tell )ou? 

“I’ve been on a diet,” Maxie said. 
“I’ve lost fifteen pounds. Don’t you 
notice the difference?” 

Roland looked ;it her ag.oii. So far 
as he could see, she still restinhled an 
underdone pudding. “Yes,” he lied. “1 
knew' there was something different but 
I couldn’t (|uite put my finger on it.” 

Maxie absorbed the compliment, then 
glanced at her watch. “Oh, gee,” slu 
said. “I’ve got to get going. I In- 
butcher said he had a roast for .Mom, 
but if she didn’t pick it up before ten 
he’d let it go to somehoiK else. So 
long.” She hojiped back up to the seat 
of the bike and pedaled cpiickly awa\. 

“So long,” Roland called, happy to 
see her go. Roly-poly, he muttered in 
disgust. Fifteen and you meet a ci'l 
.and she calls you Roly-poly. She must 
i Cojitinurd an 17) 

“Good night! I wonder if she’s trying to seduce me.” 

THE ARCHIVE, March, 1947 


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Ytt tiHT/3^Tau»i 

Fields Where Roses Fade^ 

As lu' u.ilkcil slowh h.ick to liis sliip 
tri'in the room full of phone hootlis in 
the Officers’ Club, he felt tin- wiml 
Mtl.nnst his f.K'e and saw tlii' broad ex¬ 
panse of the star-filled skv. He was a 
stiaimer to tlie port, now a stranger to 
the sea, and he tlionght ironically that 
there couldn’t have been a better night 
for him to find out about Carl. I'he 
sk\ ami the stars seemed to mock him 
with their timelessness, and the wind, 
comiii't: m from the black Atlantic 
Ocean, canting torn pieces of news¬ 
papers across the ilock into the water, 
made him feel like a stranger to his 
own existence. 

He stopped when he was halfway 
down the dock and looked at the red 
aircr.ift warning lights on the masts 
of the ships on either side of him. He 
could see the lights of his own ship at 
the end of the dock and could imagine 
what was happening on hoard. 'I'he 
duty officer would be playing gin rummy 
with the Chief Machinist, and the ra¬ 
dios would be blaring all over the ofli- 
cers’ quarters and in the crew’s compart¬ 
ment, the gangway watch would be 
drinking coffee and watching the clock 
in the mess hall until midnight. Every¬ 
thing would be just as it had always 
been when they were in port at night. 
-And he wondered how many of the 
men under his command were doing 
their best to play a part too. 

He kejit thinking about the phone 
call, the room full of Naval officers 
waiting for their connections, the oper¬ 
ators who had laughed and joked with 
some of tile men for talking over five 
minutes to their girl friends, the black 
receiver ;md tin- mouthpieci- and .about 
the words III- h.ul he.ird. He felt 


that It was like dialing Meridian 7-1212 
in New \'ork and he.aring a lifeless 
female voice give the time. Even if you 
stood there and shouted into the phone 
the Voice would continue to tell )'ou the 
time. .‘\ few minutes .ago he had put 
his money in the proper slots and then 
.1 voice h.ul said that Carl been 
killed in Eurofie almost a month ago. 
\’ou ilial the proper number and the 
voice tells \ (>u that Carl is tlead, and it 
doesn’t m.atter how loudly you shout or 
hou' much you protest, the voice will 
keep repeating the same thing; “Carl 
is dead . . . Carl is dead. . . .’’ 

He remembered placing the receiver 
back on its hook and walking to the desk 
at the back of the riKim. "I'he attendant 
had laughed and said that there wouldn’t 
be a charge for overtime since he was 
just about the hist one tonight that 
hadn’t broken that hve-minute rule. 

If he had read it in a letter he might 
have wanted to weep. You can reread a 
letter, say the words aloud, read it to 
someone else. The words on the page 
become very real when you accept their 
meaning. But now he stood on the dock 
wondering how it could possibly be 
real. If he hadn’t made the phone call, 
he wouldn’t have known until his mail 
reached him, and he wondered if the 
time between now and then would have 
been real. 

He suddenly could see Carl standing 
at the top of a snow-covered hill, wav¬ 
ing, calling out and then starting down 
the run on his skis. 'Ehe wind sweep- 
intr the dock reminded him of the icy 
air of the hill where they had gone 
skiing each winter during those years in 
high school. 'Ehe shifting, uncontrolled 
memories brought back the nights, too. 

that they had spent talking and wafi li- 
ing the boats pass on the river. Carl’s 
voice, his spoken words, his phr.ises, 
half-forgotten, incomplete, the tone of 
his voice, tense, interested, jet tout le d 
with a kind of iron\ as though 
he could be involved in the business at 
hand, yet detach himself in order to 
laugh at his own situations, seemed to 
return and speak to him from out ol 
the d.irkness of the harbor. “Next sum¬ 
mer we can hitchhike to New England 
. . . it’s the kind of book that I wish I 
could write . . . wait until you see lu i 
in ‘Waterloo Bridge’ . . .’’ Phrases, pu- 
tures, frequently intermixed and un- 
chronologically arranged, words that 
had been spoken in jest, pictures tin \ 
had taken and developed in Carl’s ga¬ 
rage, girls they had dated, all had tin 
air of something remembered from 
another life, another time; and he ft It 
a pathetic strangeness to his own 
Carl was gone; only the flashes of mem¬ 
ory, the brief pictures his mind could 
summon up, the wind of the hill on 
which they had skied, the books he knew 
that Carl had read, remained. 

He started to pull his cap down tight¬ 
ly to keep it from blowing off, then 
decided to take it off, and the icy wind 
cut around his head as he continued to 
walk towards his ship. 

He walked up the gangway and could 
hear the radios playing “The Trollex 
Song.’’ The gangway watch jumped 
out of the warm entrance to the fire- 
room and put a cup of steaming black 
coffee on a wooden box that held the 
ship’s log. 

“Good evening. Captain,’’ he s.iul 

“Good evening. Ski.” 

Th/S is not simply a war sketch—It is the story of any t/ian and his sorrow. 


THE ARCHIVE, March, 1947 

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Ih’ mis a straniicr to the port^ 
'Uiir o stroni^rr to tlio soo^ and 
hr tlum^lit irouically that 
Urrr ronidii't haw hrra 
hotter aifiht for him to fii 
}ut about Carl. 

He returiicil the salute and walked 

rward to the officer’s country wish- 
ilt he could get to his room without 
; ing through the wardroom. 

Sntder, the executive officer, was 
.'me in the w.irdroom re.uling a maga- 

“Good evening, Capt.iin.” 

“Gootl evening;.” 

“I was just uj) on the bridge. With 
tit wind lilowing, we c;in he grateful 
tit we’re not out tonight. IJet it’s 
(jing at ie.'ist twenty knots, |M<)b,ihly 
t'-ty at sea.” 

“’t’es. We’re lucky. It’s rather bad 

Miyder put his maga/ane on the table 
•I i stood up. 

[‘Ihink I’ll Itave a cup of coffee. 
V mid you like oner ” 

“Yes, I would, Snyder.” 

He took off his coat and sat down. 

“Did you get your call through all 
right? I'here’s usually a mob at those 
places waiting for calls.” 

“Yes. I got it through all right.” 

Sn\iler took the silex and poured 
two cups of coffee. 

“When I was up on the bridge, I 
thought I saw you standing on the 

“I was. 'The wind felt good. I was 
just tr\ ing to think, I guess.” He hesi¬ 
tated a moment. “I got some bad new's 
tonight. One of my friends from home 
was killed overseas last month.” 

Snyder sat down across from him. 

“'I'hat’s really tough, Captain. It 
seems as though everyone gets news 
like that these days.” 

“Would you mind turning that ra¬ 
dio off.^” 

Snyder reached around and flicked 
the switch. They could vaguely hear 
the remainder of “ The Trolley Song” 
coming up from the crew’s compart¬ 
ment. riiey drank their coffee and 
then each lit a cigarette, f inally Snyder 

“It’s really tough,” he rcjieatcd. 
“Some of the best guys I knew at home 
have been killetl. Always seems odd 
to hear about some one you knew in 
high school, ^'ou keep thinking about 
them as being so young. I guess you 
remember them that way. I never 
think about them growing older until 
I hear that they’re gone. .Always seems 
((^ontmurft ou Pngr 26) 

lE ARCHIVE, March, 1947 


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Neiv spring 1047 


(ire faithful companions 

Elegantly casual—a precisely 
tailored coat by rothmoor 
identities you as smartly 
dressed . . . for anv occasion 
. . . ail) w here. 




THE ARCHIVE, March. 1947 

-riio llorsepiill- 

I (! 'itniiii-cl fro)/! Ptri^r 

I Kt out .1 littK- siro.iin, tlimkiii^ 
i\\ miK h I si'iiiukil like .1 Rlidilc Is- 
lul Riti. Gt.iiulp.i s.iw nu' then, niui, 
ikh to iii\ rclu’t, st.irtcd to rein in tlie 
uses. rhe\ snorted, stomped on tile 
lound, .ind stopped. Mi’ whcelch.'iir 
lied to .1 stop a tew teet from them, 
here a moment’s silence, aiul then 
(Idenlv evenone was shouting and 
nerint: over me .and asking me if I 
•IS .ill right. Cirandpa pushed through 
e ci iiw d. 

“Sarah'” he \elletl. “What in the 
1111 Util are tani running around in 
at thing for nowr” .And he ordered 
e to he placed haek at me original 
linage |ioint. I'lie crow’d still hung 
ound me .as it I were some sort of 
twer .and the\ were all hees. I tried 
.doing them .aw.a\’, hut without much 
lecess. l in.alh, the with the nasal 
\ang .announced with no little pur- 
ise in his voice that the jnill would 
uitinue. Immediateh’ the crowd foi- 
lok me and turned h.ack to the run- 
.a\. (Jr.indpa climhial h.ack onto tin- 
l.attorm and to shout at Moses 
1(1 l.i/.a. riie horses tugged .at the 
iriiess, hut the wouldn’t 
ikiae. No one m.ade a sound. Cii.iiidpa 
i((l ag.iiii and again, hut with no het- 
r luck. I the look ol determm.a- 
lui fade from his eye .and a look of 
elplcssness came over his face. He 
lanced at me accusinglv, and then, as 
e glanced at me again, an expression 

ot .self-satisfaction rejilaced the look of 
helplessness. He dropped the reins and 
stepped down from the f or 
.1 moment I thought he was goint!; to 
take a how, hut he went over and s.aid 
something to the with the nasal 
tve'.ang. J he jiicked up the micro¬ 
phone and announced to everyone that 
Jimm\ was the winner. 

Later, after the crowd had dispersed 
and the family had finished t|ucstion- 
(Co>iti}iiirfi on Pngr 17) 



Personal Loans 

Savings Loans 

Mombe-r Federal Deposit 
Insurance Corp 

mm^ FLM BMK 


/vr ROOM "iJke hunt room 

R-59.5i 1000 '2 W. Main St. 

Heads Up! 






April 5—Duke.U. N. C. 

April 12—W. Forest.Duke 

April 19—Duke N. C. State 

April 26—Navy .Duke 

May 3—Duke U. N. C. 

May 10—W. Forest.Duke 

May 17—U. N. C.Duke 

May 24—U. N. C.N. C. State 

May 31—N. C. State.U.N.C. 

Noth The alxwc schedule will be aug¬ 
mented later in the season. Follow rhe hall 
with the outstanding sports station of the 
( arolitias 

l>onkiii^ Ahead 

station WDNC has been au¬ 
thorized to change its fre¬ 
quency to 620 kilocycles and 
increase its power to 5,000 
Watts daytime and 1,000 Watts 
at night. Work on construc¬ 
tion is now in progress mean¬ 
ing greater service to Duke 
University within the next few 



he archive, March, 1947 




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Ice ('ronin Spocialisls” 



Fancy Ices 

For Parties of all 

Phone L-963 





Food Prepared 

Fraternity Parties 

Palms Peslauranl 

305 E. Chapel Hill St. 


((hnitiiinrd jram Puf^r 2) 

noi'iii.r. Doi'HLE, ron. Asn 

I'ROi 'Hl.i: . . . 

(China's Dntiuy, Clii.iiig Kai-slick’s 
lU'W hook, ii;ot ;i doiihlf printiiit; In this 
coimtn. riu- M;ic.\lill;m Co. and Roy 
PidtlisluTs hrouglit out (.'ditions at the 
same time. Reviewer Annalec Jacohy 
thought Roy’s edition much better, not 
only MacMillan glossetl over 
some of Chiang’s more shocking state¬ 
ments hilt also hecause .VlacMillan’s 
effort was a “shodd)' little hook” whereas 
Ro\ a “well-bound volume.” She 
prohahly smelled ’em too. 


Before you get into another argu¬ 
ment about how much sex should be 
tolerated in modern novels, read Ben 
Ray Redman’s article “Sex and Liter¬ 
ary .Art” in the October AnwriccDi Mer¬ 
cury. One of the best we’ve seen yet. 

ME FIRST . . . 

-Allen, 'Lowne & Heath, new pub¬ 
lishers of books about music, launched 
their first one, a biography of Kousse- 
vitzky, a short time ago, and had the 
thing thrown right back in their laps. 
It seems it was written by a .Mr. Moses 

Smith, one-time fender with Kousse- 
vit/.ky. Now Koussevit/.ky is suing for 
libel ;ind ;i tew tboiis;md oilier things. 
Besides, Koussevit/.k\’s own story of his 
life liapjieiis to be in the making at the 
moment. Wc see. . . . 

HEAH AX' 'FHEAH . . . 

Nancy I'hr Mtnuitre Bruff’s new 
Cider front Edeu is due this month. 
Publishers Dutton say it has all the 
“drive ... of a Greek drama.” Hop on 
the band wagon, folks. . . . Scribners 
announced that Santayanna has finished 
his autohiography. Persons and Places, 
but it won’t be released until after his 
death. . . . 'I'here’s a new Hemingwa\ 
novel due soon. Scene: !■ ranee. . . . 
Charles Jackson of Lost Weekend t.ime 
IS now in Bermuda working on another 
novel. He says that it will be his first 
with a multi-character plot. . . . .Aline 
Bernstein (She was the model for .Mrs. 
Jack in Ihomas W’olfe’s last two 
novels) has just had a new novel re¬ 
leased, Miss Condon. . . . How man) 
knew that Frank Yerbv, author of 
Foxes of Harrow, which was verg |iop- 
ular in the South, was a Negror . . . 
Forever Amber now has sold thirty edi¬ 
tions. That’s over 1 , 400,000 copies. 
.And no book club either. 

The End 


THE ARCHIVE, March, 1947 

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124 VV. Parrish 

-Tlie Horscpiill- 

( (Jo?ifiniitv/ from Pdf^r 15) 
ing im-, scolding Dorothy, and con¬ 
gratulating finline, who appeared very 
phased. Grandpa came over to me. Min¬ 
gled With Ins look of self-satisfaction 
was a touch ot self-pity, lietore I could 
sa\ anything, he spoke. 

“Nou', now, Sarah,” he said, and 
patted MIC condcsccndinglt on the shmil- 
iler. “1 don’t \()U to tell me how 
sorry you are that I didn’t win the pull.” 
I looketl at him in amazement. 
“.After all,” he went on, “I saved 
\()ur life, diiln’t Ir” 

1 nodded mutely .and he began to 
push me away. Maybe Grandpa can’t 
stand to think that there’s someone 
sm.arter than he is, hut there’s something 
he loves more than he dislikes, and 
that’s to consider himselt a martyr, and 
a hero to hoot! 

The End 

-This Is It- 

[Coyitiniicd from Page 11) 

think I’m still a little boy. I'hat’s the 
trouble with corning back to a place 
once you’ve left it. A'ou grow up while 
you’re away but people don’t realize that, 
and they think you’re the same childish 
little creature you were when you left. 
I’ve been away for a year, grown up, 
and now mother sends me to cut some¬ 
body’s grass. Of all the stupid tasks, 
more of a job for some kid that’s still 
in grammar school. Roland loosened 
iiis belt to see whether that would make 
the overalls more comfortable. I wish 
I could do something to show them I’m 
not a child any longer. Maybe I could 
take to drink. 

He stopped before a huge, unpainted 
old house with a cupola on top. I he 
numbers had fallen from the pillar on 
tin- porch, hut Roland Icit sure that it two-si.\-f i VC ; tiu- gr.iss seemed .it 
Ic.isl a tool higlu r .in\ dlhcr la\\n 
.ilong the stuct. I III d.i\ sciincd dis¬ 
mal. .As he hurried up the w.ilk, Ro- 

izr. —:- zm 

‘Tapers of 



Personal Cards 





Printing Co. 

124 W, I’arrish 

Tlf: AK( HIVi;. March. 1947 



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IHilkij Ulaij Store 

We oxtciul a cordial invitation 
to all Duke students 

Ice Ocaiii 




Next To Uptown Theatre 

-I'liis Is It- 

I.iihI looked at tiu- sk), hoping tor raiii- 
eloiitls; hut he hlinked under the in¬ 
tense ra\s of tire sun. l’roh,ihl\ it was 
hettei It w, isn’t i.iining. I Ic’d only 
have to lonn h.iek some other da\ and 
the glass Would hi' i \en higher hy then. 

Roland started up the porch steps but 
checked him ,el t. He glowered and 
hliished as he walked down the cinder 
dri\e to the hack ot the house. Hack 
door, he muttered hitterh. Hack door. 
Just liki- an\ servant. I guess mother 
feels she s |)ritty lucky to have me to 
^e nd around to do all these childish tasks. 
It she w'ants to do f.ivors for her 
triends, whv doesn’t she pick ones she 
can do herself? 'I'hat’s all I’m good 
tor. Just ;i little kid to run errands. 

He stood h\ the hack steps, calling for 
.VI IS. Hregar, and after a moment she 
stepped unsteadily out onto the back 
porch. “Well,” she called out when her 
eyes focussed on Roland, “Hello out 

“Good morning,” Roland replied. 
He couldn’t decide how old she was. 
Her face had a yellowish tinge, but her 
checked gingham dress counterbalanced 
that. “iVlother said \(ui wanted some¬ 
body to cut four lawn.” 

.Vlrs. Hregar looked around. “Do you 
think it needs cutting?” 

Roland surveyed the tangled meadow 
of grass. He thought so, but he wasn’t 
sure what she expected him to say. “I 
think it could stand it,” he ventured. 
“In spots,” he added hastily. 

“Well,” Vlrs. Hregar .said, “I sup¬ 
pose it does. Let me show you where 
the mower is.” She came down the 
Steps, holding on to the railing. “What’s 
your first name? I'liere’s no sense in 
being formal.” 

“It’s Roland, .Vlrs. Hregar.” 

“Roland.” She meditated upon the 
word as she looked at him. “I think 
I’ll call you Rolv. It fits you better, 
't'ou’re just like a little cherub.” 

Rol.ind jiressi-d his lips together. I’m 
not iioing to st.ind tor it, he thought. 

^res/t ,'^raifs 

and ^et^efa fy/es 



330 WEST MAIN ST. L-979 

• Watches 

• Diamonds 

• Jewelry 

If It’s From Hopper’s It’s 


217 W. Main Street 
Durham, N. C. 

(]. Southgate & Son, Inc. 

Insurance Specialists 

Established 1872 

All Forms Of Insurance 
Except Lift*— 


Phone F-4841 j 


THE ARCHIVE. March. 191: 




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lliinks I’m Ntill ;i littli' iliilil. 
“W (■ h.i\ i' .1 woiuli i I III lawn inctw- 
’’ >lu- s.iul. “Dr. made it 
msri I. 

Rolaiul u.iilial. 

‘‘It’s .111 I'K'itru' oiu',’’ she cnntimiial. 
Runs In i’ Rat I K'it\. 

“Will It cut tliis t.ill j^r.issr” Rol.ind 
.kcd, tlimkiim wliat lie rcalh 
ceiled'i titresliiiie in.icliiiie. 

“Sure,’’ she .answered confidenti.i!I\. 
It just irnes right on through ever\- 

She snuiii: open the gar.ige door and 
idled out the machine. 'I'o Rol.ind it 
Hiked like a square wooden crate with 
handle. After c.xplaining the details 
f its operation, .Mrs. liregar showed 
nil the cilindrical set of blades placed 
II the bottom of the crate. “Watch out 
or them,” she warned, teetering dan- 
cerously over the mower. “I'hey’rc 
harp. We had a little colored boy who 
•vas >:oini: to cut the lawn; but the first 
line he went to clean the grass off the 
ilades he forgot to wait until the motor 
.lowed down, and he cut the flesh off 
:hree fingers. Something like that is 
aound to dull the blades.” 

Mrs. Hregar pulled several hundred 
\ards of black cord off a peg. “Here’s 
the cord,” she said. “'I'liere’s a plug 
here in the garage and one on the 

“Hut where do I put the eord,” Ro¬ 
land asked. “Won’t it <lrag along the 
ground ;ind get in the way and every¬ 
thing ? ” 

“Oh, no.” She laughed, ;i dry, hoarse 
little laugh. “\’ou wear the cord across 
your shoulders, lyike :i toga.” She tossed 
it to him. 

Rol.ind grahhed the twisting coils 
and slung them over his shoulder. He 
could feel his back bending under the 
weight. Mrs. Hregar swayed along be¬ 
hind him into the yard ;ind then leaned 
close. “Cut it all down, Roly. I was 
out the other night mowing down the 
{Cotiliniird on Pngr 21) 

For That Well 
Groomed Look, 
Stop Often At 




Union Building West Campus 

Wlien Yon Have 
Watch Troiihle 


Ferrell’s Watch 

7 Watch Doctors 

108 W. Parrish St 
Opposite Silver’s 

For Your Health 
For Your Pleasure 
For Your Fiiii 

Bring Dates 

Fraternity Leagues 

Geiiter Bowling 

Opposite Post Office 
Phone R-6271 For Reservations 

THE ARCHIVE, March. 1947 


I . • i!:^i ^ t. v' l 

: )' I » 

ifn'^ ■>-■>>/ *lf 

I .till 

•‘'Jt» '• * /I a<n«' 
.'no r ' 

-< < •?!/ 

.'’l ' , f M<*ri ,,r|l ,. 





^. 141 ^ 

Famous Names— 

■fat Make Their Home In 
iddwin's Young Modern Shop 




THE ARCHIVE, March. 1947 

-This Is It- 

[('onthniiil from Pagr 19) 
lip lu'il. It’s more fun to see tlie How- 
s fiving out on each side.” 

“How much are you going to pavr” 
• hlurted. Most of the fellows he 
lew were getting seventy-five an hour 
id some even more. 

Mrs. H regal smoothed lier dress. 
J'he usual price is twenty-five or thirty 
nts an hour, isn’t it? Will that be all 

“^’es,” Roland said miserably. He’d 
ive to cut the lawn anyway. 

“W'ell, we’ll settle up when you fin- 
1 , Roly.” Mrs. Bregar squeezed his 
in and then giggled all the way back 
the house. I hate her, Roland 
ought. She thinks I’m just a kid. I 
ould have worn my old military uni- 
irm instead of these overalls. Then 
aybe she’d think differently. 

He walked around for a few minutes, 
loking at the grass, trying to decide 
here to start. The task appeared al- 
lost hopeless, and the cord grew 
favicr with every step he took. Finally 
: dumped the cord into a heap on the 
round, having decided to find a flower 
'd to w'eed before starting on the 
rass. No matter how fast he worked, 
le job would keep him busy for weeks, 
e moved on to the long narrow bed 
inning along the front walk and, 
'•opping to his knees, began to weed. 
A bike screeched to a halt on the 
alk. Roland jumped. “Hi, Roly.” It 
as Maxine again. 

“Hullo,” Roland said. “Get your 
last already.'’ ” 

“Guess you’ll be busy here most of 
ic summer.” Maxie looked arouml. 
Luck) I live on the next street. I can 
inie over and keep you company.” 
“Swell,” Roland said without en- 

“How much are you getting paid.^” 
laxie asked. 

“Lnough.” Roland went back to iiis 

“I’ll bet it’s not much,” Maxie con¬ 

tinued. “They’re supposed to be awful 
cheapskates. Dr. Bregar comes home 
for lunch every day because he’s too 
stingy to spend the money to eat down¬ 
town. Have you met Mrs. Bregar yet? 
You’d better watch out for her. She 

“I think she’s wacky,” Roland said, 
keeping up his weeding. 

“And say, if you’re not working 
some afternoon why don’t you drop 
around to the house? 'Fhere’s always 

a crowd hanging around. We’ll all be 
glad to see you. It’s been a lonp time 
what with you being away at school 
and everything.” 

“Okay, I will,” Roland promised. 
.Anything to get rid of her. 

“So long,” she said. 

“Guhbye.” She’s just a kid. Just a 
kid in high school. Military school has 
made me a lot more mature than that 

(Continued on Page 22) 


For Many Tears . . . 

We have had the pleasure and privilege of serving 
the University and its student body ... an asso¬ 
ciation we cherish more and more with each passing 



he ARCHIVE, March, 1947 


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-This Is It- 

( ('oiifinnr,/ fror/i Jl ) 

null <>t liigli scliool h.ihiis. I don’t 
;mt to liavc ant truck witli tlicin. 
'Iu'\ scorn to think I’m just as infantile 
, tiu'f arc, hut I’ll sliow tlicm. And 
II show c\cr\liod)' else in this narrow- 
linded little hick town. I onlf wish I 
new how. 

lie |iulled more lerociousl\ .it the 
ci'ds. rile oiciipation soon hoiiil him; 
lul he develojied a method of groping 
or the weeds .ind pulling them while 
e kept his e\'es shut, en|oying tiu- d.imp, 
tickt feel of the e.irth .and 
atr ahead to dinner evenintr. M.ixie 
nd her roast had made him hungr\'. 
I'hen he rememhered Rol\-poly. Roh- 

poly, roly-j)()Iy, just a kid, just a kid, 
just a kid, kid, kid. He repeated the 
Words, tormenting himself with their 
taunt. If only I could find some way 
to show them I’m not a kid any more. 
If onl\'. . . . 

He was groping around in back of 
a rosehush, trying to uproot a particii- 
l.irly difficult weed. 'I he ground felt 
unusu.illv soft .111(1 pliable. 'I'lie texture not ii.ilh much like e.irth. I hope 
it’s not fertili/.er, he thought. 'I' 
certainly would he unpleasant. I'hough 
I don’t sup|)ose they’d take the trouble 
to fertilize the place. 

Roland opened his eyes and looked 
in hack of the rosebush. “Ugh,” he 
said. It was a dead bird. No wonder 

it had felt soft. Roland stood up. His 
hand was shaking in voluntarily, as if to 
throw off the germs. He hurried around 
to the back, opened the screen door, ai^d 
walked into the kitchen. .Vlrs. Hregar 
was sitting at the kitchen table, a whis¬ 
key bottle in front of her. 

“How’s my little gardener?” she 
said, smiling at him. 

Roland glared at her. “Do you mind 
if I w.ish m\ h.'inds,” he s.iid. “f 
weeded a bird by niist.ike.” 

“Go right ahead, honey.” She came 
over and stood by him. “Mf,” she said, 
“you’re a great deal older than I thought 
at first, ^^)u must he seventeen or 
eighteen. 1 hat blond hair and those 
innocent blue eyes fooled me at first. 
.And I’ll bet you’re not as angelic as 
}()U look.” She pinched his cheek. 
Roland blushed and turned from the 
sink, his hands dripping water over the 
floor. “Where are the paper towels?” 

“Here you are, honey.” She picked 
up a towel. “Let me dry )'our hands 
for you.” Roland held out one of his 
hands stiffly. If she’d just stop treat¬ 
ing me like a kid, he thought. She seems 
to like me—all those remarks she made 
about my hair and eyes. Rut she could 
act as if I was a little bit older. I guess 
she’s had too much to drink. .Maybe I 
bring out the mother instinct in her. 

Mrs. Bregar finished dr\ing his 
hands. ‘“I'here now.” She hung the 
towel over the rack and smoothed her 
dress. “Say, aren’t you tired from work¬ 
ing so long— It’s about eleven now. 
Why don’t you let me show you around 
the house? It’s a wonderful old place. 
We’re renovating it ourselves.” 

“I’d like to see it,” Roland said. He 
was willing to do anything to keep away 
from dead birds. “Doesn’t it take an 
awful lot of work?” he asked, as he 
fidlowed .Mrs. down the hall 
to the living room. 

“It sure does, honey,” she said. “But 
we’re not going to pav the prices they 
ask iiouadays. It’s outrageous.’’ I hey 
ste|i|H(l into the room. “How do you 
like the papei ^ I put it all on m\sclf— 
had the hardest time getting tin circles 

Telephones L-961—N-135 

For Easter 

Send her Hihherd^s Home-grown Flowers 
Our Flowers with their Lasting 
Qualities Will Tell Her 

Your Story! 

PHONE L-925 

Corner Corcoran & Parrish Sts. 


THE ARCHIVE, March, 1947 

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to match.” Roland still try¬ 

ing to decide wlu tluT lie liked the effect 
of the d.u k green circles n|i(Mi the light 
green hackgrouiul, Mrs. Ifrcgar grabbed 
his arm. “Sort of looks like a hunch 
of hulls’-etes, doesn’t itr” She snapped 
her fingers. “Sa\, would ton like to 
plav darts' We have some out in the 

“No . . . no thank laui,” Ridand 
s.iid h.istih. He uas beginning to feel 
uncomfortable. I wish I knew how she 
acts when she hasn’t so much to 
drink, he thought. Mrs. looked 
\\iKll\ about for .a second, sliohtU non¬ 
plussed b\ his, .and then pointed 
to the celling. J'he moulded fitiures 
were tlone in g(dd ; the b.ackground was 
bain-blue. “I ilid it all mvself,” she 
said proudh. “Don’t you think it looks 
prettv wonderful r” 

“It’s very attractive,” he said. “I 
like the gidden angels especially.” 

“Just like you, darling.” Mrs. Kre- 
gar laughed and pinched his cheek again. 
Roland decided that the next time she 
did it he was going to pinch her right 
back. .VIrs. Hregar moved quickl) over 
to one of the large windows and pushed 
up the lower sash. “See,” she said. “It’s 
right level with the porch. Whenever 
we have a party we open all of them 
and play Go-In-And-Out-the-Win¬ 

Roland smiled. He was beginning to 
like the W'oman. At least she didn’t 
treat him so much like a child, and she 
had said he looked seventeen or eighteen. 
He wtuidered what she meant by being 
as angelic as he looked and then smiled 

.Mrs. llregar took encouragement 
from the smile. “Let’s ton and me 
play,” she suggestetl, clutching Roland 
and pushing him toward the window. 
“Go in and out the window, go in and 
out the window,” she sang as she pulled 
him along. “Come on. '’f’ou siii”; too.” 

Rid.ind wriggled out of lur gr,is|i. 
“I ic.illt (hin’t think I’d better, Mrs. 
Hi eg. II. 1 i.m’tsllU’ \el\ Well.” Me 
( 0)1 ) 

THE ARCHIVE, March, 1947 

Hats Off... 


In past years we have been proud to serve the Duke 
Students. In doing so we feel we have had a small part 
in aiding you to realize your high hopes for the future. 

It is our desire to continue to serve you now and in 
the years to come. 



‘Dream Qirl 


Beauty Shop 

208 N. Corcoran St. 
Opposite the Washington Duke 
F-3421 F-3351 

Our 35th Year In Durham — 

Yes we have been serving our Durham friends for the past 35 years. 
Let us count you as one of our satisfied customers. 

New Coats Made to Order, Remodeling, Relining, Cleaning and 
Lusterizing, Repairing. 



Serving Durham Since 1912 

Telephone J-3401 109 E. Chapel Hill St. 


Tiir Slorajic Vault Located lui Premises 



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Keepsoke YOLANDE 

In whit« OS weM noturol gold 

Through six decades the 
choice of America’s loveliest brides, 
a Keepsake is the most treasured 
of all diamond rings. Come in and 

Quality Store’^ 

303 E. Chapel Hill St. 

Across From Washington Duke 

-This fs It- 

Cotitiiiiirfl jrmn Pnt^r 2.f) 
lli.ii some (it the nciglibors niiplil 
see lliciii (biiKiiig along tlic ponli and 
it would get b.ick to his inotlicr. “1 
think IM better get h.ack to work,” he 

“W.iit just .1 tew ininiitcs more, 
Roly,” Mrs. Itregar begged. “I h.avc 
the biggest of all to show you 
yet.” She led him down the hall and 
around a corner to the back stairs. Lean¬ 
ing inside the opening, she pressed a 
button. A low, humming noise started, 
and soon a folding chair came into sight 
from the gloom of the stair well. “This 
is our own private elevator,” Mrs. 
Bregar said proudly. “Let’s take a ride.” 
She pulled down two flaps that looked 
to Roland like slender arms. “Come 

on,” she said as she at down on one of 
the arms, “let’s get going.” 

Roland hesitated. “Will it hold both 
of us.?” 

“Of course it will.” Mrs. Bregar was 
growing impatient. “Why, when we 
have company, five or six of us ride up 
and down at the same time until all the 
fuses blow out. Lhen we have to find 
our way about in the dark. It’s a lot of 
fun. But come on. Don’t act like a 

I’ll show her who’s a baby, Roland 
thought. Here I was beginning to think 
she was going to treat me like an adult 
and now she goes back to old rou¬ 
tine. I’ll get back at her, he concluded 

For llir. 

shoe Rehairing 

Service in Town 

Sl op a I 

Louis Sher, Mgr. Class of ’33 
Bus Stop at Five Points 

“The Little store with the 
large selection of 

Zenith Radios—our own re¬ 
pair department. 

Buffet clarinets—York Band 

Supplies & Music—Our new 
department (Electric 


At Five Points 

‘Come in and Browse Around’ 

Personalized Gifts 

for all Occasions 

Come in and let us help you 
choose your gifts 

Florrie Jones 

Decorating Shop 

Consultant and Decorators 

Florrie Jones Rosie Cox 

1108 W. Trinity Ave. 

Phone L-3021 


THE ARCHIVE, March, 1947 

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as lu' gingcil\’ sat <l(nvn on tlic 
other arm. 

Mi>. Hii'i^ar piislicti the hiifloti. “Stiek 
\oiir K'l;s out straight,” she said. “It 
feels more like Hying that way.” 

Roland stuck In’s legs init, hut they 
onlv felt rather uncomfortable. I won- 
iler what she’s taking me upstairs for, 
he thought. .M.ixie saiil she liked to 
slum cveiyone .iround the place. Rut 
. . . Ljood night! I wonder if she’s 
trvini: to seduce me? He had heard at 
scluxd that women did things like that 
to young men. 

W’hen the elev.itor re.iched the top 
of the flight of steps, Mrs. Rregar 
jumped lithely off, t.ikmg holil of Ro¬ 
land’s hand, “"^’ou certainly are a cute 
kid,” she said. “I’d like to have a few 
locks of that t'ellow hair you have.” 

It might be that’s what she’s trying 
to do, Roland continued thinking. I 
can’t really be sure, though. Certainly 
she wouldn’t do such a thing if her hus¬ 
band was coming home for lunch. But 
mat be he isn’t today. Maybe the alcohol 
has got her muddled. I wish I knew 
for certain. It’s evident she thinks I’m 
more than a mere infant. 

Mrs. Bregar started to walk down 
the hall. “We haven’t finished so very 
much on the second floor yet. Only 
thing really fixed up is the bedroom 
George and I sleep in. I think we’re 
doing pretty well, though. We’ve only 
been living here three years.” She 
opened the bedroom door. “Come on 

I’ll know soon, Roland thought. If 
she makes any advances. I’ll string right 
along, so as to prove I’m no kid. He 
stood awkwardly in the middle of the 
room. “Sit di)wn. Roly,” Mrs. Bregar 
invited. She was |ierched on the edge 
of the bed. “Let’s bounce. 'I bis is the 
springiest bed. Some afternoons when 
I get tired of jiainting I come up and 
bounce lor ,i li.ill hour or so .ind I leel 
like a lie w” 

Roland down. ’1 his is it, he 
thought .and reached for .Mrs. Bregar’s 

jTHE ARCHIVE, March, 1947 


h.aiid in order to squeeze it. He missed; 
she had already begun to bounce. As 
he m.ide a second attempt, a whistle 
pierced the noise of stpie.iking springs. 
Mrs. Bregar stopped bouncing. “That 
must be George home for lunch al¬ 
ready. I didn’t expect him so soon.” 

“Oh,” Roland said weakly. 

George whistled again. I guess I 
m.ide a mistake, Roland thought. I 
guess she does think I’m a kid, and 
wasn’t trying to seduce me after all. It 
was all Platonic. I hen he smiled and 
trembled at the same time. George 
might not look at it that way. He might 

(Continued on Page 28) 

mmm m 



Musical enjoyment and the 
best in fine furniture styling— 
Magnavox is both a superb 
musical instrument and truly 
fine furniture. 

See it at 



11.3 W. Parrish St. 
Records and Shed Music 
Phono F-6261 

Brunswick Stew 
Fried Chicken^ 
Sizzling Steaks 

Food prepared for 
Parties and Banquets— 
Any amount at any time. 

You too will look pleased 
after dining at 


lIlTlf flCOlill 

Rigsbee Avenue and 
Corporation Street 

Phone F-6001 




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'iv ^vvifc-^«'»e r4fwi8 "_ 

I Uji^> ' ■' ■' ■ 7f: ‘ a 

■ jji " 'v ^ . ■■ . 




116 E. Parrish St. 

for the best 

American and Chinese 

Special Rates 
For Cahill 

Everything You Need 






424 W. Main St. Phone L-6981 

-Roses Fade- 

( (Jorifimiffl from Pngr /.?) 

o(l<l to me. Was it someone you knew 
in liigh scliool?” 

“\'es. I knew him in high school. 
I really never saw much of him after 
that. He went to school in the Midwest, 
;md I wound up at Iloston. We used to 
u'lite once in ;i while. . . .” He paused. 

“How .ihout .'iMothei' cup of coflee, 
Captain? You still look kind of cold.” 

“All right, Snyder. 'Thanks.” 

Sn\(ler got up and poured out two 
more cups of coffee. 

“Whenever I stay on board at night 
I drink quarts of this stuff. Hut I’d 
rather do that than go ashore in this 
town and drink quarts of beer.” 

“^’es. 'I'his is a pretty bad place. I 

wish I could take the shi|) to a good 
liberty town.” 

Snyder sat down and lit another cigar¬ 

“Hy the way. Captain, I meant to 
ask you about that availability we’re 
supposed to get in a few months. Some 
of the departments really need to get 
their jobs done a little sooner than wc 
expected. 'I'hat valve in the engine 
room IS likely to conk out again like 
it did last week. We were just lucky 
that we weren’t going out through 
the jetties or something. Do you think 
you could speak to Operations about 
having the time moved up to the first 
of next month?” j; 

“I’ll see about it tomorrow, Stiyder.” 

“A ^ 

“Of course, some of the men arc 
just hoping for a little leave around 
Christmas. They try to tell me that 

Each month a 
box of Life Sav¬ 
ers is given to 
the person con¬ 
tributing the 
best joke of the 

Are you 

Maeb ehi no* 

You are, if you get tongue-tied when you meet a 
cute cookie! Or worse yet, if you stoop to "weather 
talk!” Get on the beam right, fellow! Start off from 
third base! Offer that choice bit of calico a yummy 
Life Saver. She’ll be keen on them (and you). 

“On the beam” backwards 

P. S. Just in case this friendship 
ripens—Life Savers keep your (and 
her) breath kissahly fresh'. 

This Month’s Winning Joke 
Then there were the two maggots who wc-re 
necking in dead Earnest. 

—submitted by Logan Bruce 


THE ARCHIVE, March, 1947 

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till ship will l.ill ;i|i.itt I I' we ml iiiidci- 
w.i\ .ii:.iiii. Hilt I ill) think simir 
1)1 thr p'l's niipht In hr iIdiu' .1 litllr 
sDDiii r th.iii wi pl.iiiiu il on.” 

“I’ll iliii'k with till othri ofhii'is to- 
niDi t ow . I 'l l I tlii iii wi'll h.n o .1 iiu-ct- 
iin: lit null' 111 thr niorniiiLr.” 

*k\ ' • 

1 c‘S, sir. 

SllNili T ul.llUiil .It Ills W'.lli h. 

"\\'i. ll, I think I’ll i lii i k with tlii- 
"iiiiirwa) watch then hit the sack. As 
lour as wc’rc 1101 ns; to hr here a tew 
il.i\s, I might as \\rll get some things 
done. I’ll get lip rarh and check on 
the base for those communication publi¬ 
cations and see ;ibout getting some more 

4 r 

men for the engine room. What time 
shall I h.ive the hoy call )’ou, Captain?” 

He W'.iited .a minute then said, “Sev- 

Snyder put on Ins caji and started 

‘‘Well, I’ll see you in the morning, 
Captain.” He hesitated. ‘‘Sorry about 
your friend. It’s reall\' tough to hear 
about Someone \'ou used to know like 

“^'es, \'ou’re right, Sn\drr, it is.” 

■After Sn\drr had gone, the captain 
picked up his coat and hat and went 
up to his room. Hr tiirnrd on the light 
and glaiurd around at the desk, the 
chest of drawiis, the sink, the bed, the 
leather Settee. Nothin”; sci nied tamiliar 
any moie. 

I Ih* EimI 

Duke University Stores 

Owned and operated for your convenience 
by Duke University 

Duke University Store 
Duke Ifospital Store 
Woman’s College Store 
The Haberdashery 


For More Than a Decade 







_ _— ^ ^ mV r\ITntlATV>T TVT /> r - <=y~ _ ^ 


friendly Jjank. Since 1905 

0 : 

Member Federal Deposit Insurance Corporation 

Home Style 


Erieiully and Eflirieiit 

Universilij Grill 

(irade “A” Restaurant 
70.5 W Chapel Hill St. 
Mrs. Jo.vce Williams, Prop. 



come in and see our 
selection of— 


W. R. IMiirnn C.o 

119 E. Main Si 

THE ARCHIVE, March, 1947 

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(ovonintj appointments if desired) 

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tliitik there was I'lall)' something wrong. 
“I think I’d hetter go home,” he said 
a loud. 

Mrs. Hregar ponted. “Why?” 
“Won’t George mind?” 

She hmghi'd. “( )h, no. Why should 
he? I take people atoiind the Iron .( all 
the tmie.” 

“I laally tlnnk I’d hitter go,” Ro¬ 
land said nervously. “hOr Inneh,” he 
.tdded 1))' wa\’ ol expl.rn.ition. 

Without Waiting to Mrs. Hreg- 
ar’s re|)ly, he hurried out into tin hall, 
deciding to go dowm li)’ the hack i levator 

for fear of meeting George on the 
front stairs. He .s;tt down on an arm, 
pressed the button, and closed his eyes. 
There was a nervous lump in his throat. 
Half-way down, he o|iened his eyes. 
George was coming up the steps, and, 
as the elevator passed, flattened himself 
against the wall. Roland felt obliged 
to speak. He thought wildly for a 
moment. Then he rem.irked brightly, 
“I certainly do enjoy riding on your 
elevator.” He supposed it was the sort 
of thing George would expect a child 
to say. 

The End 


THE ARCHIVE. March, 1947 

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%) /lowers 

' • 


• • • 

April 1947 




From tlic rivers ot Georgia, Mrs. Dorothy 
Newslead has followed the trail of game 
fish to the Atlantic and Pacilic. 

Holder of the 
«■% Women's Alt-Tockle 
\*' Record for Cobia 

A retold i atth I Si\iy- 
nint poumls of the rai 
vellow-hellied cobia. 
1.Hilled ill 35 niiniues 
by M rs. Donuhy 
Ncwsccad iiJ llie 
(^uir Siu itn. 

More people are smoking CAMELS today than ever before in history! 

WILL TELL you... 

T for Taste... 

T for Throat... 

Thafs your proving ground frany 
cigaretfd. See if Camels dont 
^ suit yourT-Zone' to a'T' 


ou -'tlOOtl In lint 
If* _*:t f igarcltes...look what- 
tv.r y«»u could %*:i. That’s 
• c ri millions learned 
Came)' suited ihcm best. 

Yes, experience (hiring the wur 
shortage taught millions the 
differences in cigarette qiudityl 

• M rs. Dorothy Newstead speaking: 
"During the war shortage, I smoked 
many difTerent brands. That’s when I 
found Camels suit my ‘T-Zone’ best!” 

Yon ami millions of other smokers, 
^Irs. Newstead. 

Result: Today more people are smok¬ 
ing Camels than ever before. But. no 
matter how great the demand, tl ' 
can he sure of: 

Camel (juality is not to be tam¬ 
pered ivith. Only choice tobac¬ 
cos, properly aged, and blended 
in the time-honored Camel way, 
are used in Camels. 

Accore/ing Co a rece/iC A^afConmWe 

More Doctors 
SMOKE Camels 

t/ian any otker cigarette 

• Three nationally known 
independent research or- 
f'ani/ations a.sked 113.597 
doiiors — in every liranch 
of medicine — to name the 
eif:arelle lliey smoked. 
More doctors named Camel 
than am olher brand. 

you g 



This Month 

Recipe for reading...Ingredients 

Since the Aprii issue is the last under this 
editorship, The Archive has something spe¬ 
cial cooked up for you. This time we are 
introducing a newcomer to the pages of the 
magazine. Norman Nelson’s first contribu¬ 
tion, “John and the Second Coming,” may 
be a story about Army life, but it cer¬ 
tainly puts a new slant on the okl subject. 
The incidents resulting from the actions of 
a man who thinks he is John the Baptist are 
well-handled and, we think, make excellent 
reading. The illustration was capably done 
by Bob Parks. 

Fred Wagner, whose “This Is It” ap- 
aearcd in the March issue, has come up 
with another good one. F.ntirely differ- 
•nt from his previous story on the adolescent 
toy, “Professor Burbank and the Falling 
>tar” relates the amusing events whicli take 
tlace when a settled college professor inter- 
icws a famous Broadway actress. Pat 
(Vimberly did the illustrating. 

To supply the final basic ingredient, Cin- 
ly Cunn, our own editor, has written “Night 
' ihift” as her “farewell” contribution. .V 

' liort short story about a man who drops 
ijnto an all-night lunchroom for something 
0 eat and his encounter with the waitress, 
t makes interesting and thought-provoking 
eading. The illustration was done by 
'larence Brown. 


To add a tasty touch. Bob Loomis, out 
book-reviewer-in-chief, turns from his regu¬ 
lar duties to write the recently inauguratcil 
feature, “Scraps for the Literati.” And 
.\rchie speaks again, of course, and in his 
usual manner. 


This montli’s cover presents an interest¬ 
ing problem. Right in front of tlie Chapel 
too! The feet, reading from left to right, 
belong to Pollv Weedin and A1 Tallman re¬ 
spectively. Tlie photograph is by Johnny 

^^itorial Staff 

Virginia Anne Gunn, Editor 
David W. Fick, Associate Editor 

Bub Loo.mis and Peggy Throne 

Assistant Editors 

Betsy John Hurley, Exchange Editor 
Joan Angevine, Poetry Editor 
Clarence Brown, Art Editor 


Marion Bennett Bill Snitcer 

Johnny Morfit 
Joe Di Mona 
Cynthia Barrell 
Gordon Nazor 
Pat Wimberley 
Kitty Morrison 

Bob Allen 
Bob Parks 
Marion Fox 
Johnny Barber 
Sally Bowmall 
Charlie Sydnor 

us in ess 


John Patrick Dorsey, Business Manager 
Fran Hudson, Assistant Business Manager 
Dee Gentner, Coed Business Manager 
Bill Bryant, Advertising Manager 
Hampton Frady, Circulation Manager 


Terri Stewart 
Beti Y Bayi.iss 
Sara Huckle 
Margaret Frans 
Kay Lauer 
Sis Watson 
Genevieve Parks 

Marg Colvin 
Gloria Koltinsky 
Shirley Dick 
Jane Matthaus 
Nancy Rousseau 
Jane Scarborough 
Sandy Jones 

Typists: Nancy Kester, Slim Baird, 
Charm IAN Scates 

HE ARCHIVE, April, 1947 



- 'SSIi-'I E . . . 

' • ■ i ' rr hnallv has Seen freeil 

Si;;' r'.>r Court ot the Common- 
r': . t Massiichusetts from the 

- • - f ohseenitv . ’ Twas interest- 

ij. ' ’.V thi defense was made. In 
H«''t>.n. argued the defendant, citizens 
r- exposed, without ail verse comment, 
ti 1 Sorts ■{ Amherisli things — sucli 
.IS undressid wax mannikins in store 
windou s ; g(M>dness! ). Furthermore, 
->n the third fli'or of the Boston Pub- 
'ic Library are a few nude statues. 

■Miss W'insor’s bibliography of 356 
■ )ks read in preparation for Amber 
was interesting, too. Figure where 
these fit in if you can: How to Xa?ne 
nud Fvtd 1! tld Flowers by Fox; A 

Poikethook of British Birds by Hall; 
and two books on trees. Maybe you 
should read it again—for the culture 
this time . . . 

But .Associate Justice F rank J. F)ona- 
hue had a few things to say about the 
book besides just signing the decision. 
Among other things he wrote that while 
Forevo' Amber “is conducive to sleep 
it is not conducive to a desire to sleep 
with a member of the opposite sex.” So 


Some 800 entries have been sub¬ 
mitted to the twenty-fifth annual ex¬ 
hibition of the American Institute of 
Graphic Arts, and despite the shortage 
handicaps the quality of workmanship 
seems quite up to normal. 

Although serious in tone, the ex¬ 
hibition of the “Fifty Books of the 
Year” w'as not without a few startling 
happenings. An otherwise handsome 
entry had one of its pages unaccount¬ 
ably smeared with chocolate. Another, 
a book having to do with volcanoes, in¬ 
geniously contained what was supposed 
to be a piece of lava. But a Doubting 
Thomas had it analyzed and found it 


to be only congealed machine oil. 

CRY WOLFE . . . 

The Tom Wolfe lore grows. Lotsa i 
people are making money writing i 
when-I-knew-him articles. The Amer- i 
ican Mercury has been running some in- i 
teresting stuflF by L. Ruth Middlebrook ‘ 
about Wolfe’s year of teaching in New i 
York. Of more interest to the Wolfe i 
bobby soxers should be his letters to 
Mrs. Roberts that have been appear-;, 
ing in the Atlantic Monthly, December 
through February. They are far more 
penetrating than his Letters to His 
Mother. Mrs. Roberts was the model 
for Margaret Leonard in Look Home¬ 
ward, Angel. 




Student Supplies — Radios & Phonograph Records 
Kodaks & Photographic Supplies — Candies — Drugs 
Tobacco — Fountain Luncheonette 
Cosmetics & Perfumes 

Meredith Moore—’32 

Open Mon.-Sat. 9:00 A.M.—11:00 P.M. 
Sun. 12:00 Noon—11:00 P.M. 

O. G. Sawyer—’23 


THE ARCHIVE, April, 1947 

April, 1947 


Volume 60 Number 7 

In This Issue-} 

This Month . .page 1 

Scraps for the Literati. page 2 

By Bob Loomis 

Archie Speaks . . .page 5 

John and the Second Coming . .page 6 

By Norsnan K. Nelson 

Professor Burbank and the Falling Star .page 8 

By Fred R. ]Vegner 

Night Shift . page II 

By Virginia Anne Gnnn 








The publication of articles on controversial topics does not necessarily mean that the Editor or the Uni¬ 
versity endorses them. The names and descriptions of all characters in the fiction of this magazine are 
fictitious. Any resemblance to any person or persons is not intended and is purely coincidental. 

Notice of entry: "Acceptance for mailing at special rate of postage provided for in Section 1103, Act of 
October 3, 1917. Authorized December 4. 1924." Entered as second-class mail matter at the 
Post Office at Durham, N, C. 


Copyright, April, 1947, bv John Patrick Dorsey 

A Monthly Magazine Published 
by the Students at Duke Univer- 
sityj Durham, North Carolma. 

1 E ARCHIVE, April, 1947 


Campus Pacemakers 

§ « 

Belmont Sport Coats 
and Slacks 

most likely to succeed 

with the undergraduates this spring combination is 
voted most likely to succeed. . . . Belmont sport coats, 
styled with that long soft roll matched of course, with 
Belmont tailored slacks. 


107 E. Main Street Durham, N. C. 


THE ARCHIVE, April, 1947 

Archie Speaks 

Ole Archie is still slightly befuddled. 
That picture of me which some disre¬ 
spectful young man drew (above) is 
about the way I must have looked at 
the Hoof ’n’ Horn spectacle a short 
while ago, which I attended with the 
critical purpose of judging the in¬ 
trinsic qualities of choregraphic terpsi- 
choreal ability displayed. Ahem! But 
speaking of spectacles, in my—uh, con¬ 
fusion, I dropped my specs right from 
the balcony where I was sitting into 
someone’s lap downstairs. Will that 
person kindly contact me? I am of¬ 
fering a rather suitable reward. 

Bud Middlesworth told a story 
the other day which he swore was 
true, about his vacation in Florida. 

He was coming home in the wee 
hours one morning when he saw' 
an inebriated individual wbo was 
having a great deal of difficulty in 
holding up his particular lamp 
post. Like the good Samaritan 
that he was. Bud offered to help 
the character up to his room if he 
could remember where it was. so 
the two proceeded up to a second 
floor apartment in a nearby hotel. 

When Bud reached the desig¬ 
nated door, he opened it and 
swiftly pushed the drunk inside, 
closing it rapidly to escape any 
possible repercussions from the 

Imagine his consternation when, 
jn leaving the hotel, he saw an- 
)ther drunk in an even worse con¬ 

dition, but he decided he might as 
well make a few' more points and 
so offered his assistance a second 
time. This drunk was evidently a 
roommate of the other, so back to 
the second floor went Bud once 
more and shoved him inside too, 
hastily closing the door. 

Bud began to think that this was 
too much of a good thing when he 
got downstairs and saw' a third 
drunk, looking more pitiful and 
beat-up than either of the others, 
feebly clutching at the door. He 
was about to step forward once 
again when the character spied 
him and, turning wildly, sped 
across the street toward a police 
officer. Bud followed after and 
caught up with him just as he ar¬ 
rived panting before the police¬ 

“Offisher,” he sobbed feverishly, 
“shave me from thish man! 

“Why, what’s the matter,” asked 
the People’s Protector, as Bud 
looked on incredulously. 

“Matter? He’sh pushed me down 
the elevator shaft twishe, and if 
he dush it again he’ll kill me!” 

I'hc J’ub Row telephone rang the 
other (lay, and I) I) editor Chan 
Hadlock answered. It develo|H‘d that 
an irate advertiser had contracted for a 
full-page ad with the understanding 
that the magazine was to come out be¬ 
fore Easter, and had just learned that 
the mag was delayed for another week. 

Now, Hadlock is the one who orig¬ 
inally taught the Brooklynites their 
dialect, and he finally managed to in¬ 
terrupt the tirade long enough to get 
a couple of words. 

“W-w-wait a minute, boss,” he stut¬ 
tered. “I don’t know nothin’ about no 
ad. I’se just the janitor down heah!” 

It looks as though a rash of 
Polls has broken out over the cam¬ 
pus. First it was the Chronicle’s 
Student Poll, then it was the one 
planned by that interesting class 
I dropped in on, and now .lohnny 
Morfit is conducting one for the 
Alumni Office. 

But getting back to the subject, 
I was looking over some of the re¬ 
plies the Chronicle received and 
came across this lulu. In reply to 
the question, “Does the professor 
know' his subject?” one disillu¬ 
sioned student wrote bitterly, “I 
wouldn’t know. We never discuss 
it.” And another remarked, “He 
may know it. alright, but be 
doesn’t seem to want us to find it 

From the Alumni Office poll I 
culled this “Criticism of Duke Uni¬ 
versity in General”: “Why can’t 
the newspaper and magazine find 
somebody’s name to print besides 
.Joe Di Mona’s? I’m getting sick 
of seeing it.” 

Quit twisting my arm, Joe, I put 
it in there for this month, so go 
away and leave me alone. 

THE ARCHIVE, April, 1947 


John And The Second Coming 


I Miin't been nt Camp riioniton 
\v: '. !i>n^ before I met John. Evert- 
b Jv in the companv knew him bv the 
: nu the training cvcle hail been gn- 
nij. Ml two weeks, especialh the fel- 
1 'ws 'n the first platoon. 

I got acquainted with him the same 
w.i\ etertbodt else did. I was sit¬ 
ting .>n the barracks steps after chow 
.uii ew-ning cleaning mv rifle, when 
he came up and sat down beside me. 
He was short and stockv with a long 
oval face, deeph lined. His stiff black 
hair was streaked with gray. He had 
a twisted mouth and jagged teeth. He 
didn’t sav anvthing for a long time, 
and somehow I had the feeling that he 
was looking me up and down like any¬ 
body would inspect a horse at an auc¬ 

I'hen he said, “Son, haye you been 

It was none of his business, but for 
the sake of conversation I told him I 

“'I'hank God for that.” His voice deep and resonant, yet it seemed a 
little strained. “There are so many 
who haven’t been baptized. And the 
time is not far off.” 

He rubbed his chin with a hairy hand 
and stared at the stove pipe that sprouted 
awkwardly from the roof of the chow 
hall. I wondered what he was talk¬ 
ing about but didn’t feel free to ask 
que^tions. 'I'he man had a sort of mel- 
am holy dignity. 

He sat in silence a while longer and 
thrn began to talk to me the way G.I.’s 
..-ually do when they’re getting ac¬ 
quainted. \V'’e talked about the war 

and the lousy food and the noncoms 
and our home towns. John was in¬ 
teresting to talk to, but after the 
conversation I realized that he knew al¬ 
most everything about me, while I 
didn’t know anything more about him 
than his name and the town he came 
from. I had the feeling that he had 
been granting me an interview and was 
unsatisfied with me. 

I got to know more about him from 
listening to the fellows talk. 

“The guy reads a lot,” Mac, the 
Scotchman from Schenectady, said. 
“Gets all these books from the post li¬ 
brary and curls up in his bunk like a 

Illustrated by Bob Parks 

damn tapeworm. Reads the Bible 
more than anything else, though.” 

Then Otty Pugh said, “Ever’ once in 
a while he lays awake a-prayin’ half the 
night. I’ll wake up aroun’ one or two 
in the mornin’ an’ hear him. Way he 
mumbles to hisself, though, I cain’t 
never tell what he’s a-prayin’ ’bout.” 

Things like that made the fellows 
start calling him John the Baptist. He 
didn’t seem to mind at all. He’d just 
wag his long horse-head up and down 
and laugh his rich laugh. Before long 
even the noncoms were calling him 
by that name. 

It was only natural that sooner or 
later he’d get acquainted with Gene 
Michaels. Gene and I had been bud¬ 
dies ever since we’d met at Fort Mac, 
the reception center. He was a dark 

haired kid of around twenty, slender 
and not very strong, who had been : 
drafted out of college during his sen¬ 
ior year. He was quiet and pretty 
moody, and every once in a while he’d 
have a spell when he felt low for days 
at a time. 

It was easy to see that Gene wasn’t 
cut out for Army life. He’d never 
been on his own before, and though 
he wanted to be a good soldier, he 
tried too hard and always did the 
wrong thing. That, and the kidding 
he took made him feel terrible. He 
had a high-powered imagination and 
would fall for any line of bull, so 
naturally the G.I.’s kidded him all the 
time. Not that they didn’t like the 
kid; they just couldn’t understand his 
delicate nature. Gene didn’t know how 
to take teasing, and it hurt him a lot. 
He had nightmares just about every 
night, and sometimes he cried in his 

One afternoon when Gene and I 
sat in the supply room steel-wooling 
bayonets, he asked me, “Gus, what do 
you think of this person John the Bap¬ 

“Crazy as hell,” I said. “He seems 
to have taken quite a liking to you, 

“He’s rather intelligent in an odd 
sort of way. The other day we were 
talking about religion.” 

“What’s his slant on it.?” 

“That’s what I don’t understand. . 


He’s memorized chapters of Scripture j 
perfectly. Once he said something ^ 
about a ‘mission’ he’s supposed to per- , 
form, but when I asked him about it, > 

A man can be bewitched if told 
that he is greater than other men. 


THE ARCHIVE, April, 1947 

le changed the subject in a hurry.” 

“Just goes to prove he’s half nuts 
ike the guys all say he is.” 

“I don’t think so, Gus. He has too 
nuch common sense.” 

I didn’t say anything else. I could 
:ell from the dark, brooding look in 
jene’s eyes that he was getting in one 
)f his low moods, and I didn’t want to 
lasten it any. 

Soon they started going in town to¬ 
gether every Saturday night. They’d 
take off right after inspection and 
wouldn’t get back until bed check. 
Usually they’d be a little tight when 
they came in. 

That was a funny thing about John 
the Baptist. He didn’t seem to have 
any objection to drinking in spite of 
all his religion. One time I asked 

business. If he wanted to get mixed 
up with that crackpot, I couldn’t do 
anything about it except keep an eye 
on him to see that he didn’t get into 
any trouble. 

I noticed that John the Baptist was 
constantly doing little favors for Gene 
now, and frequently giving him pres¬ 
ents such as books or tickets to the mu¬ 
nicipal orchestra concerts. Often he 


Suddenly his rifle dropped to the ground and he collapsed. 


As the training cycle went on. Gene 
nd John got to be better and better 
riends. They were always talking 
bout books and religion or some non- 
:nse that nobody else could under- 
tand. Gene had studied literature in 
ollege, and had read just about every- 
hing in print, so he and John must 
ave had plenty in common. .All the 
oes in the platoon liked Gene, even 
f they did tease the life out of him, 
ut after a while they left him pretty 
inch alone, the way he palled around 
j/ith John. 

Gene about it. 

“We never drink anything but 
wine,” he said. “We go in town and 
drink wine and talk.” 

“What the devil do vou talk abovitr” 

“Oh, everything in creation. I guess 
we talk about religion more than any¬ 
thing else.” 

“Ever find out any more about his 
‘mission’? ” 

“Why yes—” He paused and 
frowned. “No, he hasn’t said any¬ 
thing more about it.” 

I didn’t ask Gene am thing else. I 
knew he was lying, but that was his 

would take K.P. for Gene or help him 
clean his rifle. Once, when Gene 
wasn’t back from town in time for 
bed check, John crawled in the kid’s 
bed when the C.Q. came through with 
his flashlight. It worked, but of 
course John had to spend the next week 
cleaning B.AR’s. 

Soon after that Gene had his twenty- 
first birthdat . It was hard for me to 
realize he was that old, he had such 
a baby face and always looked so scared 
and innocent. That evening he came 
up to me and pulled back his shirt cuff. 

(Coyiiimied on Pnge 12) 

HE ARCHIVE, April, 1947 


kM and the falling Star 


It’< tor; mucti to pay, Otis Burbanl< 
^Tumlilcd to liimself, just to ride from 
one hotel to another. He slammed the 
''■.or !,f the taxi, hurried across the 
uav ment to the hotel, and waited im- 
oati ntly for the revolving door to stop 
fjrnm'c. I suppose I can afford a few 
■ ;ru ■- now that I’m a full-fledged 
pr-.f-■ or. fifty-five isn’t young, hut 
f re’-^ ,till a good long life ahead of 
U:- . \\ hen the door stopped turning, 

^t( pped int<. one of the sections and 
I- . . • d on the glass. Elevators, esca- 
ators, and n volving doors! I wish I 


were hack at Southern College. But 
duty is duty and I have a mission to 
perform. I guess I’m really sort of a 
cultural Crusader. Then, having come 
safely out into the lohhy, he gave a 
sigh of relief. 

Well, Otis thought, the hour ap¬ 
proaches. When he pictured the or¬ 
deal ahead, he nearly added “on little 
cat feet,” hut he knew that was the 
fog and he didn’t believe in mixing 
quotations—it was much worse than 
mixing metaphors. The bright lights 
of the lobby startled him. He had im¬ 

plicit faith in restraint, and his own 
hotel uptown was an exclusive residence 
for bachelors that had recently been 
remodeled from a distinguished but, 
unfortunately, bankrupt funeral home. 
After a second’s indecision he started 
across the lobby toward the desk but 
paused halfway through the room to 
compare his wrist watch with the large 
clock above the elevators. Half an 
hour early, he realized with dismay. 
I certainly can’t go up to see her this 
soon. And here I was absolutely sure 
that I’d arrive just about on time. He 


THE ARCHIVE, April, 1947 

There was something strange about the 
woman who used two teapots to serve tea. 

veered around the lobby and finally 
ielected an armchair that looked more 
:omfortable than most of the modern 
mrniture in the place. Not until he 
jettled back did he notice that it was 
'lext to the entrance to the bar. I 
•eally should move, he thought, and 
niffed to see if there were any odor 
)f alcohol in the air. 

A cloud of cigarette smoke was 
ilrifting by, and Otis sniffed a little 
|oo vigorously. As the fumes seeped 
lown into his lungs, he choked and 
'.lanced about to see where the smoke 
iiad come from. His eyes met those 
■ f a blue-eyed blonde, slightly under 
;aiddle-age, occupied at the moment in 
eplacing a pack of cigarettes in the 
ocket of her scarlet raincoat. Otis 
cowled, and the blonde smiled. Ap- 
arently the frown was all the recog- 
ition that she needed, for she trotted 
'ver and perched on the arm of his 

“I know I’se a bad dirl to speak to 
perfect stranger,” she gurgled, “but 
3uld you give me just a mean little 
Id match.? 'Fhe nasty old wain has 
lade my boy-friend late.” She pouted, 
er eyes filling with tears. 

Otis drew away and loked at her 
ith scorn in his eyes. “I’m sorry, but 
don’t carry matches,” he said firmly, 
lunciating each word clearly. Then 
; got up and walked away. The idea, 
; said to himself, the very idea. 

He stopped before the newsstand, 
arching among the gaudy covers of 
e movie magazines for a copy of 
The Saturday Review of Literature.” 

I he scantily clad woman on the covers 
, the magazines scandalized him. Sin 
, Hollywood, that’s what it is. A 
odern Babylon, a veritable den of 
iquity. He drummed with his fin- 
rs on the counter, trying to attract 
je attention of the newsgirl, who was 

jlE ARCHIVE, April, 1947 

immersed in a copy of “Delightful 

“What’ll ya haver” She chewed out 
the words at him. 

“The New York Tmies, please.” 

“Here ya are.” She tossed the paper 
upon the counter, raked the change 
into an empty cigar box, sat down, 
picked up “Delightful Love,” and 
opened another pack of gum. She 
worked with a dreamy air, as if, the 
monotonous routine of selling papers 
long since transcended, she now existed 
in a little world of her own, consist¬ 
ing mainly of the acrid tang of Spear¬ 
mint gum and the mild amorality of 
“Delightful Love.” 

Otis snorted, and walked over to a 
chair fairly well removed from the 
vicinity of any ash trays. He opened 
the 'rimes to the book review section 
but could not concentrate because his 
mind kept wandering back to the near- 
naked women on the covers of the 
movie magazines and then ahead to the 
woman he was waiting to meet. She’s 
an actress, too, he thought. Of course, 
she was on the stage, not in the movies. 
That may make some difference— 
probably for the worse. Olivia Raines. 
He muttered the two words half aloud. 
Olivia Raines. Why, the very sound 
of the name is common. He made a 
little rhyme. Miss Olivia Raines has 
no brains. That’s probably just the 
way things are. A stupid, silly, shal¬ 
low actress without any trace of culture 
or refinement, and now the Adminis¬ 
tration wants to invite her to join the 

^Lhe mere idea of choosing a woman 
in the first place is ludicrous. So long, 
so long, so very, very long I’ve dreamed 
of a dramatic department at Southern 
College. .And now. W’^hat did 'I'ho- 

Illustrated by Pat Wimberley 

reau say? Build your castles in the 
air and then put your foundations un¬ 
der them.? Well, I built my castles; 
now look at the foundations. A wo¬ 
man ! A woman simply is not capable 
enough for the job, especially an ac¬ 
tress. She’ll probably want to produce 
the latest Broadway successes instead of 
something worth wdiile. 

Modern women, he thought, are of 
an entirely different sex from those of 
my mother’s day. It’s a tragedy that 
John Donne isn’t living in this era. 
Otis believed that Donne had presented 
the best indictment of women he had 
ever come across: 

“Though she were true when you 
met her. 

And last till you write your letter, 
A'et she 
Will be 

False, ere I come, to two or three.” 

This Raines woman has probably 
been false to two or three dozen, he 
decided. And I suppose that’s a fairly 
mild estimate for an actress. I’m glad 
that the Administration sent me to in¬ 
terview her; at least I’ll have some¬ 
thing to say about whether she’s 
accepted or not. We have to be care¬ 
ful what type of person we admit to 
the faculty. 'Fhe opening line from 
the Donne poem Hashed across his mind: 
“Go and catch a falling star.” 'I'hat’s 
what it is, he thought. She’s a falling 
star and thinks that a position at South¬ 
ern college will catch her. He was 
rather pleased with the simile. “Go 
and catch a falling star.” W'^ell, he 
concluded vindictively, if I don’t ap¬ 
prove of her. I’ll just let her drop. 

His hands relaxed their grasp on the 
paper, the middle section of which 
slithered down over his knees to the 
Hoor. Otis bent over, stretching to re¬ 
trieve the scattered pages; and as he 
(Continued on \ext Page) 



- '..k ■ t,> the chair again, he 

. .t the hab\-talk blonde, 

v. .is S' -’ciig across the lobbv with 
-- .'w-faced voung man, who 

, lit,;*' lu-r wrist with one hand and 
ri.iNii-b"’b camera with the other. A 
’ '> displa\, Otis thought. It’s 
i' ld - nough in \ oimgsters, but people 
I ■ tiieir age ought to know better. I’m 
ij,.ite sure that I never acted like that. 
I'he tw.- stood at the desk; and the 
• mde kept nu7.7.1ing the voung man 
while lu carried on an animated con- 
\ rs^ititm over the house phone. When 
he finished, thev started toward the 
bar. The blonde saw Otis and waved 
to him. 

“Him Coined after all,” she chortled. 
I’ri'.fessor Burbank flushed and closed 
the paper. It was now five minutes of 
four. Middle-aged women w'ith young 
ideas, he muttered, should have hus¬ 
bands, and vigilant ones at that. But I 
suppose I shouldn’t censure her too se- 
vereh. Otis reali7ed that, at times, 
he was inclined to bathe immoderately 
in the stream of morality flowing from 
his Puritan heart. 

He walked over to the desk. “I’m 
Professor Burbank,” he said to the 
clerk, “Otis Burbank. Will you see if 
Miss Raines is ready to receive mer” 
d'he clerk picked up the house phone 
and dialed a number. He talked for a 
second in an inaudible v^oice and then 
turned to the professor. “She says to 
come right up. Room 619.” Otis 
thought he leered suggestively. 

'I'his hotel is probably just a mask 
tor a house of ill-repute, he mused as he 
.tvpped onto the elevator. 'I'he woman 
in the lobby was obviously trying to 
strike up an acquaintance with me. 
'I'hat brash young clerk saw it all. And 
undoubtedly he knows what type person 
thi" Raines w'oman is. I was almost too 
■mbarrassed to ask the number of her 

He was glad to leave the elevator on 
the n’xth floor, and it took him a few 
moments to recover from a slight feel¬ 

ing of airsickness. .As he swayed slight- 
1\, the newspaper slipped from under 
his arm and scattered on the green 
carpet. Otis gathered up the sheets, 
looking around for some place to dis¬ 
pose of them. .A large pot tilled W'ith 
sand and liberallv sprinkled with cig¬ 
arette butts stood beside the elevator 
doors. A ou might know, he reflected, 
that thet ’d have a place for cigarettes 
but not a w'astebasket in sight. He 
took the new'spaper, folded it, and 
stutfed it savagely in the sand. Let 
them figure that one out, he thought 

Room 619 was directly across the 
hall from the elevator. Quite a con¬ 
venient place for an actress. He hesi¬ 
tated before knocking. I must not be 
prejudiced. I must not be too severe. 
I must make all the allowances possible 
for a woman who has led a life like 
hers. It sounded like a list of New 
A'ear’s resolutions, and he hoped that 
he would be able to stick to it. 

The door opened almost as soon as he 
knocked. Well, Otis nearly exclaimed 
aloud. He stared at the woman who 
stood there. Well, I never. She was 
smiling demurely; and her grey dress 
gave the suggestion of being a tailored 
suit, although it was not. 

“Why, you must be Professor Bur¬ 
bank,” she said graciously. Her voice 
was deep and clear. “Won’t you come 
inr Tm Olivia Raines.” 

Otis followed her into the room and 
waited while she closed the door. He 
did not know what to say. All the 
scathing remarks he had planned to 
make would be decidedly out of place. 
With a half-subdued feeling of shame 
he regretted that there would be no 
use for them. 

“I hope I’m not late,” he said. He 
knew that he wasn’t, but he felt the 
obligation to say something innocuous. 

“Of course not,” she said pleasantly 
and held out her hands. “Let me take 
your hat and coat.” 

After she had deposited them in the 

closet, she crossed the room and sal 
down on the sofa behind the coffee 
table, moving over to make room foi 
the professor. Otis sat down on a chaii 
opposite her. He did not believe in 
counting too heavily upon first im¬ 
pressions, but Olivia Raines certainl) 
seemed to be a charming woman. Per¬ 
haps there is a difference between stage 
and movie actresses, he thought. The 
little poem that he had made ran 
through his head. Miss Olivia Raines 
has no brains. It sounded rather child¬ 
ish now. 

“It was a shame that you had to come 
on such an unpleasant day,” Olivia 
Raines said sympathetically. She car¬ 
ried a large chiffon handkerchief of the 
same shade as her dress, and she kept 
twisting it nervously about her fingers. 

A bit of his old resentment cropped 
out. “It certainly was,” he snapped. 
He was sorry as soon as the words were 
out of his mouth. I’ll have to watch 
myself, he decided. Olivia Raines 
stood up and smiled. Quite a brave 
smile, he felt, after that remark I 
made. I hope I didn’t hurt her feel¬ 

“Will you excuse me for a mo¬ 
ment?” she said. “I’m sure you’d care 
for some tea.” 

I can see she’s nervous, Otis thought. 
Probably this interview means a great 
deal to her. He began to reali7e the 
importance to his position and looked 
around the room with a condescending 
manner. The windows were shut and 
the velvet draperies drawn to excludei 
the dreary, monotonous dri77le of the 
rain outside. A few lamps were turned 
on, and Otis smiled sentimentally at 
the soft glow they cast over some pic¬ 
tures of children on the piano. They 
must be her nieces and nephews—well- 
behaved looking children. 

In a few seconds Olivia Raines was 
back, carrying a small silver tray, which 
she set down on the coffee table before| 
she moved around to the sofa. Otis, 
(Continued on Page 18) 


THE ARCHIVE, April, 1947 

Illustrated by 
Clarence Brown 



A Story complete on two pages 

'Fhe blue lights of the cotton mill 
stared back at their fading reflections 
on the river; for it was just before 
dawn and a light mist was rising from 
the river, blurring the blue squares on 
the water into a solid mass of reflected 

I'he heavy bass blasts of the factory 
whistle signalled. Lights appeared, 
ane by one, in the surrounding mill 
louses. With the same signal, the all- 
might lights on the bridge dimmed. 
Down around the bend of the river an- 
ither faint but growing light S|iread 
ipward over the horizon. 

A man crossed the street from the 
ifactort' to a sidewalk hot dog stand, 
die pulled his coat collar up around 
lis neck in defense of the chilly damp¬ 

ness of the early morning. 

“Coffee and a ham,” he said. 

A shivering, sleepy-eyed girl rose 
from the stool where she was sitting 
behind the counter and put a slice of 
ham on the griddle. She poured the 
coffee into a thick white mug and 
shoved it through the hole in the glass 

“Sorry to hear about your wife, 

“^'eah,” he said, fitting his hands 
around the mug to warm them. 

“Guess you’ll be pretty lonesome in 
the house all by yourself.” 

He looked up at her and gave a 
short, significant laugh. She turned her 
back to him and picked up the ham 
from the griddle. She slid it in the 

middle of a round bun and handed it to 

“Twenty,” she said without looking 
at him. 

He ignored her remark and bit into 
the ham. 

“Good cooking,” he complimented. 

‘“I'wentv cents,” she repeated. 

He took a long swallow of the 
steaming hlack coffee. 

“How do )'ou happen to work this 
night shift?” he asked. 

“You got to work sometime.” 

“’t'eah, but this must be prettv hard 
on you.” 

“I don’t mi.’nl it.” 

“Don’t you have some bov friends? 
Mavbe they’d like to take you out some¬ 
where at night.” 

THE ARCHIVE, April, 1947 


"S I hov triciuls. I can 

, t h. t >rc I COMIC to work it I 
u t.-." 

;\ln't \ on like to get married 
\. ..'dn't have tv' bother working 
N. tirs' " 

"I tiM \v'n there's lU'tln'ng wrong 
\\ :ti tlv.> job." 

"lust wMiidering about it, that's all.” 
Si'., sit di'wn <>n the stool and picked 
the mau.r/ine she had been reading 
•- t-.ri he came. 

"Hov about another coffee and'" he asked. 

"W'hv didn't vou say so before I sat 
• Ivwn.'" 

H, leaned on the counter with both 
.irms and spoke through the hole in the 

"I just happened to think that I 
W'.m't be getting anv cooking like this 
anv m.ire. I’m not much on cooking 
mvself, and there’s nobodc to do it for 

She turned her head toward him; 
her face softened. 

‘'Gee, Sam, I’m sorr\'. Guess I just 

“That’s oka\. I don’t ask anybody 
to remember mv troubles.” 

She dropped another slice of ham on 
the steaming griddle and filled his cof¬ 
fee mug again. 

“I’ll fix vou up something to take 
home with vou if vou want me to, 

“Nuh. 'I'hanks just the same. I’ll 
tret something somew'here. I might 
even hire me a cook if I could find 
■me good as you.” She flushed and 
handed him the ham sandwich. “Say, 
how’s about vou and me going out 
^ome place to eat sometime r” 

“I don’t know. With your wife 
just dead and all.” 

“\^'e’ve both got to eat still, don’t 
we: Some night maybe before the 

night shift goes on.” 

“Well, I guess so. If you think it’s 

“Sure, it’s okay.” 

He finished his sandwich and washed 
it down with the rest of the coffee. 

"How much did vou sav I owed 
vou." ” 

“ rwent\ cents.” 

“That was before I got this other 

“Twent\' cents. d'hat’s all. You 
must not have heard me right before.” 

“()ka\', hone\-, here you are.” He 
l.-iiil two dimes on the counter. “See 
\ ou then sometime.” 

“Sure, Sam.” 

He walked away from the hot dog 
stand, down the sidewalk toward the 
bridge. It was warmer now. The sun 
was in full view, and he felt better 

.■\ milk truck, with its rattling bot¬ 
tles and milk cans passed him on the 
bridge. There were other cars too. 
Their noise was loud in the yet early 
morning stillness. Sam felt good when 
he thought that everyone else was just 
starting the day’s work when he had 
already completed his. 

As he passed a house several doors 
from his own he heard the ring of an 
alarm clock from an upstairs window. 
It was followed shortly by a woman 
screaming oaths to her husband for not 
turning the alarm clock off sooner. 

Sam went home alone and content. 


(Continued from Page 7 ) 

“How do you like this, Gus.?” he 

On his wrist was a new rose gold 
watch that must have cost two hundred 
dollars if it cost a cent. 

“John gave it to me for my birth¬ 
day. I didn’t want to take it, but he 
made me.” 

“I’d like to know what his racket 

is,” I said. “That watch must have ] 
cost plenty.” 

Gene didn’t say anything, but I had 
a feeling he knew more than he wanted 
to tell me. 

’Fhe next day we were on the transi¬ 
tion firing course and ate noon chow 
in the field. When we were eoinsr ' 
through the dishwashing line to dip our i 
mess kits iii the garbage cans full of ! 
hot soapsuds. Gene accidentally slushed ! 
a skillet full of the scalding water onto , 
the leg of Purcell, a hairy bull-necked ; 
cuss with a nasty temper. 

“God damn,” Purcell yelped. 
“Watch what you’re doing, you skinny 
son of a bitch.” 

He didn’t like Gene anyhow, and if 
I hadn’t been right there he would prob¬ 
ably have made trouble then. 

We had about a half hour for bull- i 
ing and smoking before we had to fall 
in again. I lost track of Gene until 
I heard him and Purcell talking, 
somewhere in back of me. 

I looked around just in time to see 
the big G.I. slap Gene on the face with 
ail his strength. The kid was no cow¬ 
ard, but I knew he wouldn’t stand a 
chance in a fight with Purcell, so I 
rushed over to break it up. John the 
Baptist got there before I did, though. 

“Do you dare strike the chosen one!” 
he screamed hoarsely. His eyes glit¬ 
tered wildly, and his face was twisted ' 
with fury. His hairy fist crunched 
against Purcell’s jaw and then again on 
his mouth. The big fellow sprawled 
forward on the ground. He wasn’t i 
quite out but lay in a daze with a thick 1 
mess of blood and spit slobbering down j 
his chin. I 

“And he shall be despised and re¬ 
jected of men,” John was muttering. 
“The hour cometh, though.” 

The crowd that had gathered around 
us broke up now. We still had about 
fifteen minutes before we had to fall' 
in, so Gene and I stretched out under 
a pine tree on the brown matted needles 
and smoked, with our heads propped 
up on our helmet liners. Gene looked 


THE ARCHIVE, April, 1947 

Each month a 
box of Life Sav¬ 
ers is given to 
the person con¬ 
tributing the 
best joke of the 

Are you a 

L\od maerd* 

This Month’s Winning 

“Was your friend 
shocked over the death 
of his mother-in-law?” 

Does your poise rate zero when you hear "hubba- 
hubba”? Do you look over-anxious when the stag line 
stares? That’s no way for a dream doll to click! Re¬ 
lax, instead! Munch on a yummy Life Saver. They’re 
such wonderful little tension-breakers. They keep 
your breath sweet, too. 

•Jf “Dream Doll’’ backwards 



He was 

worried, and his hand trembled si ightly 
when he lifted his cigarette to his lips. 

“Gus, W'hat would you think if I 
told you that I’m Jesus Christ.^’’ 

“I’d think you’re off your nut.” 

“That’s who John says I am. Jesus 
Christ. Almost anyhow.” 

“My God! How does he figure 

“It’s like this, Gus. He thinks he’s 
a reincarnation of John the Baptist. I 
don’t know where he got the idea, but 
that’s what he believes.” 

“I know he’s a crackpot,” I said 

“.Maybe so. But anyhow, he thinks 
the Second Coming of Christ is right 
around the corner, and that as John the 
Baptist, he has a mission — remember, 
I said something about it one other 
time—a mission to appoint someone to 
be the body to receive the Lord when 
He comes. He believes Christ will 
come as a spirit and need an earthly 
body to go into.” 

“And he’s decided that you’re the 
most eligible candidate, has he.^” 

“That’s right. He says he knows 
the exact date of the Second Coming, 
and it’s not far off. He won’t tell 
me the day and hour, though.” 

“I hope you don’t take him seri¬ 

Gene flipped his cigarette butt away 
in a high trajectory. Sergeant Mullins 
saw it. 

“Who the hell do you think you are, 
Michaels.^ Jesus Christ? "^Tu will 
field-strip that cigarette butt.” 

Gene grinned at me. I knew’ he 
would be all right so long as he be¬ 
lieved that John was a crackpot. Still, 
I couldn’t help wondering how things 
would turn out, knowing what a seri¬ 
ous brooding nature Gene had and how 
ready he was to believe just about any- 
: thing people told him. 


I think John the Baptist must have 
, constantly hammered aw'ay on the kid 
.about his fool idea. I noticed that 
Gene was gradually getting quieter and 

more moody than ever and alw'ays 
seemed to be thinking about something 
a million miles away. He started read¬ 
ing the Bible a lot now, something he 
hadn’t been in the habit of doing when 
I first got to know him. 

One night after lights out w'hen w'e 
were lying in our adjacent beds shoot¬ 
ing the bull. Gene said, “Gus, suppose 
someone really w'ere to be appointed 
to receiVe the Spirit of Christ at the 
Second Coming. Can you imagine any 
human being worthy of it?” 

His voice w'as strained and eager, 
almost afraid. 

“W'^hy don’t you forget all that stuff 
and go to sleep?” I said. “'J'he first 
thing you know, you’ll be believing it 
yoursel f.” 

Gene laughed, hut his laugh wasn’t 
very convincing. We didn’t talk any 
more. I rolled over and trietl to go to 
sleep, but couldn’t. .About an hour 
later I heard Gene softly mumbling. I 
could tell that he was praying. 

■Vlost of the Joes in the first platoon 
were beginning to regard Gene as a lit¬ 
tle off now. I was the only one who 
knew' W'hat was w’rong, I guess. He 
never w'ould confess that he believed 
John, but I had the feeling this busi¬ 
ness of being the Messiah appealed to 
his imagination pretty strongly, and he 
got a bang out of tlfinking about it. 
.And I knew the idea was there pound¬ 
ing away in the back of his mind, even 
if he wouldn’t admit it to himself or 
anybody else. Whenever I’d ask him 
about it, he’d laugh it off with, “Of 
course I don’t take him seriously, Gus. 
I just humor him along and act as 
though I believe him.” 

We were in the tw'elfth W'eek of the 
c} cle now'. I w’as W’orried about Gene, 
'i'he training was really getting rough 
with longer and harder marches and 
tougher exercises. I'lie kid w'asn’t any 
too strong to begin with, and now he 
started losing w'eight and looking ter- 
(Cofittnued on \<’xt Page) 

THE ARCHIVE, April, 1947 


1 V\>MO*-^'‘ 

ox C.'lMPUSES everywhere 
Beech-\ ut Gum is a favorite 

Everywhere it goes the 
reputation of Beech-Nut 
for fine flavor goes with it 


rible. I don’t think he ever slept 
inueh at niglit, but lav awake thinking 
and praving. Ahvavs in the morning 
he got up before anvhody else. He 
would be dressed bt' the time the rest 
of us managed to get our feet on the 
floor. His eyes were bright, and he 
seemed full of energy, but I could tell 
tliat he was under a strain. 

“W^hy ilon’t )ou quit buddying 
around with that guy.^” I asked Gene 
every once in a while. 

“Why don’t you mind your own 
business,” he would say. 

Finally I decided to have a talk with 
John the Baptist. One Saturday night 
I found him in the latrine after Gene 
had gone up to his sack on the second 
floor. They had been in town guzzling 

“I want you to leave that kid alone,” 
I told John. 

He looked at me with a kind of sad 
dignity, and his long face seemed to 
get longer. 

“Brother, do you dare interfere with 
the plan of the Almighty.?” 

“I said leave that kid alone.” 

He didn’t back away when I took a 
step forward, and his gray eyes glit¬ 
tered steadily. I knew Td have a fight 
on my hands if I hit him. 

Then he said in his rich strained 
voice, “Brother, no earthly power can 
hinder me in the performance of my 
mission. ‘Every valley shall be ex¬ 
alted, and every mountain and hill 

shall be made low.’ The time is short, 
and my work is almost done.” 

He was tighter than I had thought 
at first, and now his lofty speech ac¬ 
quired a sly, earthy tang. 

“I was very worried for a while, but 
finally the plan is working the way it 
should. At last I have found the di¬ 
vine receptacle. I will be sitting on 
the right hand of the Lord. You won¬ 
der how I know this. Brother?” 

He grinned crookedly, showing his 
jagged teeth. 

“He promised me that I would. I I 
gained his favor by serving him and j 
bestowing upon him rich gifts. I am i 
his most trusted servant.” | 

I saw that he was too tight to reason \ 
with. As I went out the door of the ' 
latrine, he called, “Be prepared, j 
Brother, for the day of the Lord is at j 


Gene looked poorer and poorer all 
the time. Then I found out that he 
was eating hardly a thing. Just coffee | 
and toast in the mornings and a little ^ 
salad or bread at the other meals. 

“Don’t worry about me,” he said ' 
when I hopped on him about it. “It’s ! 
only yesterday and today I’ve been eat¬ 
ing this little. I’ve gradually tapered 
off. ‘Man does not live by bread alone,’ 
you know. I think fasting actually 
purifies a person, and I certainly need 

• 5 ) 


“So now he’s got you trying to 
purify yourself to receive the Lord, has 


R-5951 IOOOT 2 W. Main St. 


THE ARCHIVE, April, 1947 

"Tfie Lucky 


Baldwin’s Marine Room 

A free meal to the Duke 
student who gets the lucky 

every night. 

Try Your Luck! And Our 
Delicious Food. 

Ill W. Main St.—Phone F-5493 

fFe Prepare 

For Cabin Parties 


Kosher Delicatessen 

121 E. Parrish Street 
Phone N-4371 

Try Our 

Delicious Specials 

You Can^t Know How 
Good It Is Until 
You Try It 

Fried Chicken 


I^eivis (2afe 

807 W. MAIN ST. 

Open 6 A.M.-9 P.M. 

he.? For Pete’s sake, Gene, stop all 
this foolishness before yoti kill your¬ 

“Don’t make fun of me, Gus.” 

It looked hopeless, but I kept after 
Gene until he promised to start eating 
again. At the rate training was go¬ 
ing, nobody could hold up more than 
a day or two on toast and coffee. 

All the rest of the day Gene hardly 
spoke to me, but that night as I sat on 
the edge of my bed unlacing my leg¬ 
gings, he came up and sat down be¬ 
side me. He was pretty nervous and 
excited. I offered him a cigarette, but 
he wouldn’t take it. He had given up 
smoking several weeks before. 

“Gus,” he said, and his voice trem¬ 
bled, “tomorrow is the day.” 

“What day?” 

‘“Fhe day of judgment.” 

“They sure picked a tine time for it. 
We’re supposed to run the infiltration 
course tomorrow.” 

“Laugh if you want to,” he said, 
“but I advise you to spend the night 
in prayer. The kingdom is at hand.” 

“What time is all this going to hap¬ 
pen ? ” 

“John won’t tell me the e.xact hour. 
He knows, but he won’t tell me, except 
that it’s to be tomorrow.” 

I didn’t say anything else, but rolled 
over and went to sleep. 


J'he next da\' seemed about like any 
other day to me except that it was 
smothering hot. .-\ thin haze of cloud 
was spread out evenl)’ over the sky, 
not thick enough to hide the sun, but 
just enough to seem like a stifling 
blanket covering all creation. Not a 
breath of wiiul was stirring, and the 
hot moisture made our fatigues cling 
stickily to us even when we weren’t 
sweaty. Everything alive seemed 
hushed ami wilteii. Even the morn¬ 
ing hum of insects was subdued. 

It was a five mile march to the in¬ 
filtration course. W’e were soaked 
(Continued on \ext Page) 

Brunswick Stew 
Fried Chicken.^ 
Sizzling Steaks 

Food prepared for 
Parties and Banquets— 
Any ainoiint at any time. 

You too will look pleased 
after dining at 



Rigsbee Avenue and 
Corporation Street 

Phone F-6001 

THE ARCHIVE, April, 1947 


The finest in portraiture. Individu¬ 
ally designed to fit the Person¬ 
ality of each subject. 

jack williams 


IWI /2 Corcoran St. F-0181 

gyp, ipyp gyp gyp 


with before we got half way 
there. I looked at Gene. His face 
was white and strained, and syrupy 
droplets of sweat crawled slowly down 
the sides of his neck. He looked worse 
than he had any time yet. 

E\'er\'bodv was soggy and weak by 
the time we got there. We halted and 
stood at ease, waiting for the order to 
take a break. Gene looked like a wax- 
works dummy. Suddenly his rifle 
dropped to the ground with a metallic 
thud, and he collapsed. Sergeant Mul¬ 
lins and a corporal ran over to him. 
They propped his feet up on a water 
can and unbuttoned his fatigue shirt. 

“My God,” Sergeant Mullins 
croaked, “the crazy bastard’s got long 
underwear on!” 

Sure enough. Gene had on his heavy 
wool longies, both shirt and drawers. A 
ten mile march in the things was 
enough to cook a man alive in weather 
like this. 

“It’s a wonder he ain’t dead,” the 
corporal said. 

They finally brought Gene around 
and asked him about the wool union 

“I had a chill when I woke up this 
morning and thought I ought to put 
them on,” he said. 

He glanced at me. I knew he was 
lying and that this must be some more 
of his purification. Self-punishment or 
chastisement or something like that. 

They made him take off the long 
drawers, and after he rested a while, 
he seemed all right and wanted to go 
through the infiltration course with the 
rest of us. They decided to let him. 

We crawled it without any trouble 
that morning, a hundred yards on our 
bellies with TNT charges spraying dirt 
in the air and machine gun bullets 
whizzing by four feet above us. It 
wasn’t bad except for the sand that 
worked into our fatigues and rubbed 
our elbows raw. 

We spent the afternoon fiddling 

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THE ARCHIVE, April, 1947 

with 60 mm. mortars, setting them up 
and adjusting the sights. That night 
we were supposed to run the infiltra¬ 
tion course again when they would add 
skyrockets and parachute flares to the 
general confusion. 

After evening chow, John the Bap¬ 
tist strolled over to Gene and me. 

“When’s the big event going to take 
place.i”’ I asked him. “It’s getting 
pretty late now.” 

He glared at me suspiciously. 

“I told Gus about it,” Gene said. 
“That it’s coming soon.” 

“Before the birth of another da}' will 
the heavens be opened,” John said 
grandly, “and Christ will enter the ap¬ 
pointed earthly body. It is given to 
me alone to proclaim the exact moment 
of His coming.” 

Then his mouth clamped shut, and 
he wouldn’t say another word. 

The order to fall in was harked, and 
we assembled for orientation lectures. 
I looked at mv watch. It was five 
minutes before nine, and the long 
Eastern War Time twilight was just 
darkening into night. By the time the 
lectures were finished, it was com¬ 
pletely dark. Then the fireworks be¬ 
gan, and the machine guns kept up a 
fitful thudding rattle of tracer bullets. 

It was a little cooler now that the sun 
had gone down, but still there wasn’t 
a bit of breeze stirring. A rank vege¬ 
table-smelling mist had started to creep 
up from a marshy gully that lay beside 
the infiltration course. 'Ehc sky was 
heavily overcast now. It was murky 
hlack with not a star visible. 

Our platoon would be the last one to 
go through, so we settled down for a 
long wait, sitting in little groups talking 
and smokinq;. It was so dark that if it 
hadn’t been for the red glowing ends of 
our cigarettes we couldn’t have seen 
' where the other fellows were. 'Ehe 
machine gun bullets traced little threads 
of fire in the darkness, and occasion¬ 
ally a parachute flare would splatter a 
' crazy patchwork of light and shadow 

over the course. (i)ur faces would look 
pale and strained in the hard light. 
Then the flare would go out and leave 
us with little bright spots dancing in 
front of our eyes. 

“What time is it now, Gus?” Gene 
asked me. 

It was a quarter of eleven. 

“The world has to end during the 
next hour and a quarter, doesn’t it?” I 

Gene didn’t say anything. I couldn’t 
see his face in the darkness, but every 
once in a while I could hear him whis¬ 
per something under his breath. I 
knew he was praying again. 

At eleven-thirty, the third squad, the 
one Gene and I were in, crawled the 
course. Up out of the trench and 
through gritty sand over logs and under 
barbed wire, with flashes of aerial 
bombs overhead and the streaks of 
tracer bullets that seemed to be bear¬ 
ing down on us as we snaked along on 
our bellies, plowing little furrows with 
our elbows, inching forward, cradling 
our rifles in our arms to keep the sand 
from clogging them. 

Finally we finished it. I located 
Gene and sat down beside him to dump 
the sand out of my shoes. 

“What time is it?” he asked again. 

I struck a match. It was seven min¬ 
utes before twelve. I looked at Gene 
in the flickering light. His face seemed 
frozen, and his eyes glittered. 

“Within the next seven minutes,” he 

The last squad was starting through 
the infiltration course. John the Bap¬ 
tist was in that squad, and I couldn’t 
help wondering if he was getting a 
little worried about his mission by now. 

'Fhey must have had a lot of fire¬ 
works left over that they wanted to use 
up, because when the fourth squad 
started through, things began popping 
like an ordnance plant on fire. 'Ehe 
place was a screaming nightmare of 
explosives and tracer bullets. 

(Conthiued on .W.v/ Page) 

THE ARCHIVE, April, 1947 


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“It’s one miiuitc till twelve,” I told 

“It’s eominir, it’s eoming,” he whis- 
peretl feverishh'. 

No sooner had he said that than a 
paraehute Hare hurst, drenching the in¬ 
filtration course with brilliant pink 
light. .A, wild scream of exultation 
rose above the clamor of machine gun 
fire, and in the glare of flat light, I saw 
John the Baptist, oblivious of the ma¬ 
chine gun bullets, scramble to his feet 
to announce the Second Coming. 

“Prepare ye the way of the Lord,” 
he screamed, throwing his arms wide. 
“'Lhe time has—” 

He never finished that. There was 
a popping rattle of machine gun fire, 
and he pitched forward and lay on his 
face in the light of the flare that drifted 
slowly earthward, trailing a plume of 
white smoke. 

Immediately the machine guns were 
silent. There was a confused shouting 

among the noncoms as they ran out 
on the infiltr^ition course with flash 
lights. The flare had died out now, 
and the night was dense black again. 
We were all jabbering in low excited 
voices. ' 


John was dead when they carried 
him off the infiltration course. 

There wasn’t much I could say to 
Gene. He was hunched forward with I 
his head between his knees, sobbing like . 
a ten year old. It was five minutes 
after twelve now. I lit a cigarette. 

“He was crazy as hell,” Gene sobbed. ' 
“Crazy as hell.” 

“What’s the matter with the kid?” 
one of the Joes asked. 

“None of your goddamned busi¬ 
ness,” I told him. 


-Prof. Burbank- 

(Continued from Page 10) 
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THE ARCHIVE, April, 1947 

“Sugar and cream r” 

“Sugar only, please.” 

Otis todk the cup and saucer and 
tasted the tea. It was very good, quite 
strong and so hot that he could drink 
it only in small sips. He watched 
Olivia Raines as she poured her own 
tea and was surprised that she poured it 
out of the other pot. Some special 
brand of her own, he concluded. I’ve 
heard that actresses are very particular 
about things like that. Personally, I 
think it’s very silly. One type of tea 
tastes the same as any other to me. 'I'he 
graceful skill with which the woman 
handled the implements aroused his ad¬ 
miration. The professors’ wives at 
Southern College could take a few hints 
from her, he mused. The majority 
of them brew the most insipid tea I’ve 
ever tasted in my life, and then they’re 
clumsy when they pour. And social 
poise is very necessary in a classroom, 
very necessary. 

Olivia Raines cleared her throat. “I 
was so glad you could come,” she said. 
“If possible I’d like to get everything 
settled as soon as possible. I’m very en¬ 
thusiastic over the idea of teaching at 
Southern College.” 

Otis stiffened. Not so fast, my dear 
woman, he thought. Then, from the 
startled expression on her face, he won¬ 
dered if he had said it aloud. I guess 
not, he decided. The line from Donne 
popped into his head again. “Go and 
catch a falling star.” Each time he 
thought about it, the poem seemed more 
silly. As for Olivia Raines, well, she 
impressed him, but certainly her per¬ 
sonality was not overwhelming; he 
wasn’t going to let her rush him into 
anything. 'I'he dramatic department 
at the college meant too much for him 
to take any chances. 

“The committee is going to vote 
upon new faculty members at the end 
of next week,” he said. “I imagine 
that they w'ill get in touch with you 
soon thereafter.” 

Her eyes looked rather tired, (ftis 

saw with approval that she was not 
wearing any make-up. When women 
reach middle age, he reflected, it’s time 
for them to abandon false vanity. Let 
them appear in their natural state. If 
they look ravaged, it’s their own fault. 
He never approved of young women 
who wore make-up, either. Even if 
Homer did mention that Penelope wore 
it. He had always thought that Pene¬ 
lope was a loose woman, anyway. Otis 
inspected Olivia Raines closely. Statu¬ 
esque seemed a somewhat cold and life¬ 
less term for such a vital person, but 
he final}' seized upon that as the only 
word to describe her. Somehow, she 
reminded him of the Blessed Damozel. 

He decided to ask her the most im- 
( Continued on Page 21) 



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THE ARCHIVE, April, 1947 I 

-Prof. Biirbaiik- 

portant question at the beginning. 
“What type of drama interests you 
most, Miss Raines?” He almost felt 
as though he should have a notebook in 
which he could take down her state¬ 
ments. The idea had nagged at him, 
but he had finally come to the conclu¬ 
sion that a notebook would only get him 
all mixed up. His belief was in reliance 
upon sensory impressions. He fidgeted 
as he waited for her to reply, for he 
knew he would have to veto her ad¬ 
mission if she made a stupid reply. 

The question appeared to have taken 
her by surprise, and she appeared rather 
startled. “Why—what branch do you 
find most delightful. Professor Bur¬ 
bank?” she asked. 

Otis smiled. “The classic drama.” 

Olivia Raines took another sip of tea. 
She seemed more sure of herself. “And 
so do I.” She leaned forward a trifie. 
“Won’t you tell me all about your 
work at Southern College?” 

Otis beamed. He was relieved at 
the answer she had made. P'or a mo¬ 
ment he had been afraid that she was 
going to say Shakespeare—so many peo¬ 
ple did—and he did not care very much 
for Shakespeare. Otis considered him 
much too vulgar. She had made ex¬ 
actly the right reply; Otis was over¬ 

“I’ve been at the college for thirty 
years . . . ,” he began, but the ringing 
of the phone interrupted him. 

“Excuse me. Professor,” Olivia said 
and hurried over to the phone. Otis 
tried hard not to listen; he looked the 
other way and stirred his tea vigorously 
and noisil)', but he could not help 
hearing the conversation. 

“Oh, it’s you,” Olivia Raines said. 
“I told you the last time to w'ait until 
I got in touch with you . . . No . . . 
No . . . \’ou’ll just have to w'ait . . . 
'Phe whole thing will be ruined if vou 

(Contbiued on Xext Pnge) 

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THE ARCHIVE, April, 1947 


The University Dining Halls 

Telephones L-961—N-135 

-Prof. Burbank- 

The poor woman, Professor Burbank 
mused pitifully. I imagine she needs 
money. I’ll try to get the recom- [ 
mendation through the committee as 
speedily as possible. But I shouldn’t 
eavesdrop. This may be something 
entirely different. 

Olivia Raines placed the phone on 
the stand and returned to the sofa. 
She took a drink from the teacup and 
then refilled it. “Pardon me, Profes¬ 
sor, weren’t you just about to tell me 
everything concerning your work at the 
college.? ” 

Otis began once more. “I’ve been 
at the college for thirty years . . .” His 
mind wandered away from the sound 
of his voice. The story had been told 
so often that he could repeat it now 
without even bothering to think about 
it. Olivia Raines was looking at her 
teacup, so he took the opportunity of 
watching her eyes without being no¬ 
ticed. They had looked tired at first, 
but now they seemed to sparkle. The 
tea must have revived her, he thought. 
She glanced up, her eyes met his, and 
they both smiled. Professor Burbank 
continued his story, and Olivia Raines 
sipped her tea and smiled. And,as she 
listened her smile became broader. I 
suppose I’m being very witty, Otis de¬ 
cided. J 

The line from Donne kept running 
around his head in circles. “Go and 
catch a falling star ... go and catch a 
falling star ... go and catch a falling 
star.” I’m surprised I can still say it 
straight. I wish it would go away; it’s 
utter nonsense. I’ll concentrate on 
something else, he decided and inter¬ 
rupted his own story. 

“Do you care for sophisticated plays, 
Miss Raines?” he said, expressing his 
own disapproval by the scornful tone of 
his voice. 

A spark danced in her eyes. “Oh, 
no,” she said. “I don’t care for sophis¬ 
tication in any form. Sophistication is 
like sunburn: it always peels. And in 


THE ARCHIVE, April, 1947 

the most embarrassing places.” Her 
laughter tinkled across the room, shat¬ 
tering his self-importance. 

At that moment there was a terrific 
pounding on the door. The knob 
turned, the door opened, and the baby- 
talk blonde blew into the room with the 
sallow-faced young man and the flash¬ 
bulb camera in a cloud of cigarette 
smoke. As the young man came across 
the room, Otis placed his teacup and 
saucer on the floor and sprang hastily to 
his feet. 

“We couldn’t wait any longer, 
Livvy,” the young man said. “Besides, 
they threw us out of the bar right after 
we phoned you.” 

Olivia Raines nervously set her tea¬ 
cup down upon the table. Some of the 
contents spilled. “What are you doing 
here.?” she said sharply. “I just told 
you on the phone to wait until I called 
you, no matter what happened.” 

d'he young man disregarded her an¬ 
xiety. “How about letting me get a 
picture of you with the old boy? This 
will make all the papers. I can see 
the headlines now: ‘Glamorous Star 
Signs Contract for Lecture Series at 
Southern College.’ That’ll start ’em 
off, Livvy. 'J'hen we can follow up 
with a series of pictures of your ac¬ 
tivities on the campus. By the time 
your contract expires down there, you’ll 

have every producer on Broadway eat¬ 
ing out of your hand again.” 

Otis looked wildly about for the 
baby-talk blonde. Just as he turned his 
liead toward the door, she came out of 
the closet. “Where’s the bathwoom, 
Livvy.''” she moaned. “I have a pain 
in my tummy.” At that point she 
caught sight of Otis. “Daddy!” she 
screeched with joy, her nausea for¬ 
gotten. “What a supwize to see you 
again! Stay wight there. I’se comin 
over.” She dashed toward him, but 
Otis stepped aside and she overshot, 
landing in a heap on the sofa beside 
(31ivia Raines, where she bounced 
limply once or twice. 

"Lhe young man raised the camera 
and scrutinized Olivia. “How about 
letting me get a picture of you with 
the old boy?” He looked at her care- 
full)'. “My God. Go put on some 
make-up. And change into a decent 
dress. Where on earth did you pick 
up that thing?” 

Olivia Raines sat on the sofa, dab¬ 
bing at the corners of her eyes with her 
chiffon handkerchief. “I wanted to 
make a good impression on the profes¬ 
sor,” she wailed, “and now you’ve gone 
and spoiled it all. I told you that the 
publicity pictures could wait. Getting 
the job w'as the important thing.” 

(Cofitinued on Next Page) 

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THE ARCHIVE, April, 1947 


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The blonde had stopped bouncing 
and was now humming to herself. Fi¬ 
nally she picked up the teacup from ; 
the coffee table and sniffed at it. “My 
I)od, Livvy,” she babbled. “What’re 
you drinking whiskey out of a teacup 
for.?” : 

“Shame on you,” the young man re- 1 
proached her. “You should have been! 
able to keep on the wagon for a couple | 
of hours.” ;] 

Olivia Raines stood up and started tof 
walk toward Otis. “He never would' 
have known,” she wept, “if you all i 
hadn’t broken in. But you’ll forgive 
me, Professor Burbank, you will, won’t 
you.?” |: 

The young man raised his camera 't 
again. “See if you can’t stand up I 
straight for a moment or two, Livvy.” j, 
He sounded resigned and disgusted, i' 
“Maybe we can salvage something from , 
the deal by getting a picture and tell¬ 
ing the papers that you’re refusing the 
contract because you want to stick to 
the stage.” 

Olivia Raines reached the professor 
and stood there, swaying unsteadily 
back and forth. Otis groaned inward¬ 
ly. It can’t be. It just simply can’t 
be. I won’t believe it. Such things 
don’t happen to people like me. By 
that time the young man had finished 
adjusting his camera. “Hold it!” he 

Oh, my goodness, Otis thought. 
She’s going to collapse. I know it. 
I’ve got to do something. He me¬ 
chanically stepped over to her. And 
then the bulb flashed and the shutter 
of the camera clicked and Otis sagged 
as Olivia Raines’ weight hit his arms. 
He closed his eyes, mentally picturing 
the photograph and the headline as he 
knew it would appear in the Southern 
Gazette. It was all mixed up with that 


silly line from Donne: “Professor Bur¬ 
bank and the Falling Star.” 



THE ARCHIVE, April, 1947 

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T/m Month 


With the coming of graduation, many of 
Duke’s best writers and the Archive’s most 
frequent contributors will be leaving for 
parts unknown. Probably one of those to 
be most missed is Bill Snitger, three of whose 
stories have appeared in previous issues this 
year. His fourth, “Light of Common Dav’’ 
we have in this month’s magazine. .About 
a little boy who experiences the first realiza¬ 
tion of his own individuality, we consider it 
one of Bill’s finest pieces of work. The il¬ 
lustrations were done by our .Art Editor, 
Clarence Brown. 

.Also numbered among the departing is 
Joe DiMona. .As a final touch to his long 
writing career at Duke, he has given us 
“Past Tense,” the story of a man whose at¬ 
titude is a common one among those whose 
experiences have been the same. 

Here around the office, we’re going to be 
missing past editor Ginny Gunn. In tribute, 
we’ve “borrowed” her picture for this is¬ 
sue. Not without a struggle though! 


.Although many are graduating, there still 
remain the old standby’s whose work has 
appeared in The Archive before and, we 
hope, will continue to be submitted. .Among 
tliese is Bob Loomis who, in addition to his 
usual contribution, “Scraps for the Literati,” 
has written “Striving for the Wind,” the 
story of a Voung boy for whom reality 
falls far short of his desired ideal. It was 
illustrated by Bob Parks. 

The yet To Come.... 

A rising star on the Duke literary horizon 
is Guy Davenport whose first contribution we 
heartily acclaim. Guy not only wrote the 
short short storv “.A Visit From Maris” and 
the humorous poem “Opus,” but illustrated 
them too! We’re looking forward to more 
of Guy’s work in the future! 

Jeff Frederick is another newcomer too. 
He has taken over the book reviewing de¬ 
partment this month and gives us a critical 
analysis of The (j/psy's Baby and Other 
Stories, by Rosamond Lehman. 

Although Clarence Brown would hardly 
come under the category of an Archive 
novice, this is the first time he’s ever at¬ 

tempted a cover. The result is what you 
see on the front and we think it’s pretty- 
good ! 


In the .‘\pril 1946 issue of The 
Archive there appeared a fictional 
story entitled “Altitude.” The edi¬ 
tor and staff had no idea at the time 
that the characters portrayed in it 
had reference to real persons, either 
living or dead. Unfortunately, and 
to our genuine regret, the names of 
real persons, namely Senor Victor 
Emilio Estrada and members of his 
family, were used in an embar¬ 
rassing manner. We of The Ar¬ 
chive have no reason whatever to be¬ 
lieve that any statements in tlie story 
“.Altitude” are founded on fact and 
we therefore take pleasure in so stat¬ 
ing and wishing to take this public 
means of repudiating the whole story 
and of apologizing to Senor Estrada, 
to members of his family, and to anv 
others to whom the storv may have 
given offense. 

d'he Editor. 

^^itorial Staff 

Jo.^N .A.\c;evink, Editor 
Bob Loo.mis, Associate Editor 
David W. Fick, Assistant Editor 
Bktsv John Hurley, Exchange Editor 
Clarence Brown, Art Editor 


Marion Bennett 
Johnny Morkti- 
Joe Di .Mona 
Cynthia Barrell 
Gordon Nazor 
Pat U'imberi.ey 
Kitty Morrison 
Clay Fei.ker 

Bill Snitger 
Bob .Allen 
Bob Parks 
Marion Fox 
Johnny Barber 
Sally Bowmall 
Charlie Sydnor 
Jane Murray 

SSusiness Staff 

William J. Bryan, Business Manager 
Fran Hudson, Assistant Business Manager 
Marg Colvin, Coed Business Manager 
Hampton Frady, Circulation Manager 



Bei l Y Bayliss 
Sara Hucki.i 
.Margaret Frans 
Kay Lauer 
Sis Watson 
Genevieve Parks 
Typists: Nancy 

Stew ART 

Gloria Koltinsky 
Shirley Dick 
Jane Matthaus 
Nancy Rousseau 
Jane Scarborough 
Sandy Jones 

Kester, Slim 
Charm IAN Scates 

THE ARCHIVE, May, 1947 



SCliflPS fOfi mt LITtRftTI 

\ , /\ /) 111 KXTY—PLI S . . . 

. ; 7 :i ( , tlu- \ oliimc ot 

[■'..N* vi,'''vo and verse edited by Dr. 
1'’ slii'Wed coiielusively that 

' -'i w as Some excellent creati\ e writ- 
■ ^ .>n at this University. But 

A t ..ri tlu writers whi> were rep- 
‘ M.itid it doing ni>w: W'ell, al¬ 
most lil them have continued with 
ti ir writing -ir are in some type of 
'iterarv work. 

David Cornel Dejong’s latest story 
was published in the autumn AVic Mex- 
’i Quarlnlx Revit’w, and Francis 
Grav Patton has had two stories in re¬ 
cent .V-Ti- Yorkers. Mary Gus Rod- 
j. rs’ work has been appearing in the 
u Oman’s magazines, and W'^illiams 
F .rest, who left Duke before he grad¬ 
uated, contributes stories to Redhook 
and the Saturdax Evening Post. 

Besides doing creative writing, a 
few of 103’s former members have 
been working in the literary field in 
■ther ways. Ovid Williams Pierce 
teaches creative-writing classes at South¬ 
ern .Methodist Universitv. John 
SchafFner is now one of the editors for 
Good Housekeefing, and William Sty- 
ron, who left Duke onlv a few months 

agi\ is an associate editor at W'^hittlesey 
Douse (McGraw Dill). 

Clare Leighton, Delen Bevington, 
and George Zabriskie are all recog¬ 
nized as successful writers. Miss Leigh¬ 
ton’s recent book about her mother, 
'Fe/npesti/oiis Petticoat, received excel¬ 
lent reviews. Mrs. Bevington, besides 
having poems in the New Yorker and 
the Atlantic Monthly, has had her col¬ 
lected poems published in a volume 
called Dr. Johnson's IVaterfall. She 
will also take over Dr. Blackburn’s 
writing class next year while he is on 
a leave of absence. George Zabriskie 
has his second Guggenheim Fellow¬ 
ship and is now at work on another 


Delos Avery, who will print any¬ 
thing in his column (“Bookman’s 
Doliday” in the Chicago Fribune) as 

long as it is detrimental to Denry 
James, received a letter the other day 
from a perplexed “Delen G.” Miss 
G wrote that after reading his column 
she had got the impression that “there 
must be something wrong with any 
person who would (without special 
provocation) read the works of Denry 
James.” Then she continued, “It now 
happens that there is a young man who 
has asked me to marry him, and I think 
I am in love with him, but I am not 
sure. De not only has read all the 
books of that author, but is now reading 
them for a second time. What do you 
advise.P ” 


JOHN . . . 

And speaking of letters, Laura Z. 
Dobson got an interesting one concern¬ 
ing her present best seller, Gentleman's 
A greement. Miss Dobson was all 
wrong, said the writer of the letter, and 
the whole trouble was that the Jews 
were cowards. 

Who sent it.P Miss Dobson doesn’t 
know. The writer had decided he’d 
better not sign it. 

(Continued on Page 23) 




Student Supplies — Radios & Phonograph Records 
Kodaks & Photographic Supplies — Candies — Drugs 
Tobacco — Fountain Luncheonette 
Cosmetics & Perfumes 

Meredith Moore—’32 

Open Mon.-Sat. 9:00 A.M.—11:00 P.M. 
Sun. 12:00 Noon—11:00 P.M. 

O. G. Sawyer—’23 


THE ARCHIVE, May, 1947 

May, 1947 

Volume 60 Number 8 

In This Issucj 

This Month . page 1 

Scraps for the Literati page 2 

By R. D. Loomis 

Archie Speaks . page 5 

Light OF Common Day . page 6 

Story by Bill S nitger 

Opus . page 8 

A Poem by Guy Davenport 

A Visit P'rom Marie . page 9 

A Story by Guy Davenport 

Past Tense . page 10 

A Story by Joe DiMona 

In Recognition . page 1 1 

Striving for 'the Wind . page 12 

A Story by Robert Loomis 

Book Review . page 14 

By Jeff Frederick 








The publication of articles on controversial topics does not necessarily mean that the Editor or the Uni¬ 
versity endorses them. The names and descriptions of all characters in the fiction of this magazine are 
fictitious. Any resemblance to any person or persons is not intended and is purely coincidental. 

Notice of entry: "Acceptance for mailing at special rate of postage provided for in Section 1103, Act of 
October 3. 1917. Authorized December 4. 1924." Entered as second-class mail matter at the 
Post Office at Durham, N. C. 


Copyright, April, 1947, hv John Patrick Dorsey 

A Monthly Magassine Published 
by the Studetits at Duke Univer- 
sity, Durham, Xorth Carolina. 

THE ARCHIVE, May, 1947 


'‘Say It With Flowers'' 

The Du^ al Hackett W ay is very simple! 

1. Phone L-91 k5 

' 1 . Tell us reeipient's name and address, 
d. Tell us kind of flowers desired. 

4. Tell us card to be enclosed. 

5. Tell us vour name and box number. 

W e will deliver your flowers, charge them, and mail you statement first of 

following month. 

Dance Decorations a Specialty 


Automatic revolving crystal balls, spot bulbs in colors, flood lights, large movable spot lights for 
following dancers on the floor, or spotting singers or special entertainers, color wheels for beauti¬ 
ful and subdued lighting effects, fringes, festoonings, balloons, flags, shields and coconut palm 


117 N. Mangum St. 
(Opposite Duke Power Co.) 
Phone L-965 

Hours: 8:30 A.M. till 6 P.M. 

Washington Duke Lobby 
Phone F-101—Ext.: Flower Shop 
Hours 1 P.M. till 8 P.M. 

Sat. 1 P.M. till 10 P.M. 



THE ARCHIVE, May, 1947 

Archie Speaks 

OPEAKING of the classics, we would 
^ like to report a heated discussion be¬ 
tween two Duke coeds on the merits 
and demerits of modern composers. 
“Stravinsky!” cried one East campus 
queen. “Stravinsky is no good. Why 
the only decent music he ever wrote 
was Bolero!” 

“But,” returned her friend, “Stra¬ 
vinsky didn’t write Bolero . . . Ravel 
wrote it.” 

“See!” shouted the first girl exul¬ 
tantly, “Stravinsky didn’t even write 

'Ehe Steinway piano in the Union 
Lobby on the West campus is the cen¬ 
ter of attraction for a heterogeneous 
group of characters. H'his oddly as¬ 
sorted clan comes in several fiavors; 
chiefly raspberry. We heard a cou¬ 
ple of these lounge lizards talking 
about the musical talents of a sopho¬ 
more prodigy who was pounding the 
battered “88” with classic ferocity. 
One guy turned to the other and com¬ 
mented in awed tones: “Jeeze — get 
him—plays just like Paderewski, don’t 
he?” “He uses two hands if that’s 
what you mean,” was the reply. 

Later on at night, when the after- 
theatre crov'd begins to vacate Red’s, 
things begin to perk up a little — occa¬ 
sionally the party gets rough. The 
other night as we huddled in the cor¬ 
ner of our favorite “Goody Shoppe” 
booth reminiscing over a bottle of hot 

“Gator” beer, we noticed a couple of 
rugged rascals standing by the bar, ob¬ 
viously mad—just glaring at each other. 
Finally one of them opened his mouth 
to say something—very likely words 
never meant for family consumption. 
The other guy swung from the heels, 
clipped his opponent flush on the chin, 
folding him up like a second-hand ac- 

“What made you do that, Bojo?” 
asked one of his pals. 

“He’s my friend—a real biuhU- 
buddy and I love him like a brother. 
W^hen I see he’s gonna call me nasty 
names, I have to clobber him . . . Be¬ 
fore we ruin our friendship with a 

And then there was Damon and 

Ever hear of flogan’s Lake? . . . No, 
we’re not talking about I'H.AT Hogan, 
d'his little pond is located on the other 
side of Cha[)cl Hill and was the site 
of the DAILY 'J'AR HEEL- 
CHRONICLE chug-a-lug contest, 
just for the record, the T.VR HEEL 
hit the finish three Budweisers and 

a burp ahead of the Dukesters. When 
it was all over, and the boys were mak¬ 
ing their way back to Durham, one 
of the contestants remarked to another: 
“Say, you drank that stuff pretty fast 
—sure surprised me.” 

“Had to,” was the answer. “There 
was so much foam, I had to drink it 
fast or drown.” 

So Duke girls are dumb? Don’t 
\’()u believe it. It was “smooth hour” 
last Saturday night when one of the 
cars in the Kappa Sig fleet pulled into 
a quiet spot somewhere in Hollow Rock 

“Out of gas,” said the four-wheeled 

'I’hc girl said nothing—opened her 
purse and pulled out a flask. 

“Wow!” exclaimed her date. “W^liat 
is it?” 

“Gasoline,” replied the girl. 

d'he final round of hour quizzes, 
combined with the annual epidemic of 
spring fever, has caused many weird 
classroom scenes. It happened in our 
philosoph\’ course, which gives the 
whole incident a faint cast of re.alit\, 
but still . . . an\way, the professor asked 
the class just before he passed out the 
test papers, “Are there any questions 
before the exam?” “^’cah,” said the 
guy next to me. “Wdiat’s the name of 
this course?” 

THE ARCHIVE, May, 1947 



1' ;■ tni'ivs iluring the night rnm- 
ir.\ ht ii awake neil h\ the clashes 

t tl e:”iu-r ami hrilliant hursts of 
_'if :ig which hail accompanied the 
aM\ i'^ Winds and rain of the earh 
'nruig storm. Through sleep\’ e\es he 
id watched his mother come in ;ind 
.' I'M till window in his room, and in 
tlie drenmv state between sleeping and 
\\.ikin” he had heard his father men- 
foii something about a power failure. 

.\t breakfast his mother had made 
his toast in the oven of the old gas 
'to-.: , explaining that a wire h;ul blown 


down ;it the side of their house, and 
that, until the repair man came, they 
would not h;ive any electricity. 

"And,” she had .added, "don’t you 
go near th;it wire. 'Fhe m;in at the 
phint said it was dead w'hen I called 
liim, but I don’t trust things like that. 
Anyliow, don’t you play near it or )'ou 
might get badly hurt. Hear.i”’ 

d'ommy had nodded and then noticed his toast waas crisper than usual. 

Illustrated By Clarence Brown 

Ffe had asked her if the electricity ' 
got in the bread from the toaster and ; 
softened it more than the ijas in the : 

oveii did. ' 


She had smiled and said, “I guess 
you’re right. I never thought about 
it that way before.” ' 

And Tommy, feeling warm and se¬ 
cure as on so many other occasions be¬ 
cause of his mother’s agreement, had 
laughed. ! 

Now he sat on the steps of the front 
porch, after carefully examining the 
wire from a distance, and watched the 
older children going to school. The 
boys were jumping across the puddles 
in the dirt road in front of his house, j 
and the girls were walking tremulously i 
on the brick sidewalk. He could hear 
them talking about the destruction the I 
storm had caused. One of the older i 
boys noticed the wire dangling at the 
side of Tommy’s house and pointed ! 
it out to his friends. 

“Hey, Tommy,” one of the boys | 

called, “is that wire alive.N’ j 


“Sure,” Tommy answered. [ 

He stood up and leaned on the rail- i 
ing of the porch, seemingly engrossed 
in an examination of the wire at the | 
side of the house. j 

‘Ah)u better stay away from it,” the j 
boy in the street called back. “'V'ou 
touch it and you’ll go up in smoke.” 

Tommy turned his head toward 
them and nodded seriously. “I know. 
The man’s going to fix it.” 

d'he group of children moved on 
toward the school in the next block; and 
Tommy, until they were out of sight, 
continued to look at the wire which 
was moving slightly in the cool April 
wind. He wondered why the elec- 

THE ARCHIVE, May, 1947 

tricity didn’t fall out of the end of 
the wire, and with a start thought that 
there might he piles of it, invisible, all 
over the yard. Maybe it was still leak¬ 
ing out. 

.As he w'alked down the porch steps, 
he saw Sue Ellen crossing the street. 

“'Eomme,” she called, as he con¬ 
tinued to walk to the opposite side of 
the house, “Tommy, wait! It’s me!” 

Tommy glanced over his shoulder 
and frowned. Sue Ellen was running 
in order to catch up with him. 

“Tommy,” she called breathlessly, 
as she ran across the wet front lawn, 
“did you hear the storm last night?” 

Her feet made little squishing sounds 
as they hit the soft grass. Tommy 
looked at her disdainfully. 

“Oh, course I heard the storm. I 
bet you were scared.” 

Sue Ellen stopped beside him. She 
was younger than Tommy and wore 
glasses. He remembered the spanking 
his father had given him one time for 
pushing Sue Ellen off his wagon and 
breaking her glasses. Now, if he so 
much as raised his voice at her, she 
would run home screaming. He some¬ 
times wished that he had run over her 
with his wagon, hard enough so that 
she would never have been able to talk 

“I wasn’t scared,” Sue Ellen pouted. 
“But Mamma slept with me. She said 
you can’t look at the lightning or you’ll 
go blind.” 

Tommy put his hands in the pock¬ 
ets of his leather jacket and dug one 
of his rubber overshoes in the soft 

“ I'hat’s nothing. I’m going to see 
somebody go up in smoke todaf.” 

Sue Ellen blinked her large eces sev¬ 
eral times and then smiled. 

“Who?” she asked. 

“Oh, somebody,” said 1 Ommy, look¬ 
ing away. 

“I bet you’re not either,” she re¬ 
plied hesitatingly. 

Tommy turned and walked slowly 
to the back of the house. 

“Who?” Sue Ellen screamed at him. 
“Tell me!” 

Eommy called without looking back, 
“Come on. I’ll show you.” 

She ran once more and caught up 
with him. Her face was flushed and 
her voice quivered slightly. 

“A’ou tell me, 'Eommy Blackstone, 
or I’ll go home.” 

“It’s the man who’s going to fix the 
electricity wire. If you touch it you 
go up in smoke because it’s all full of 
electricity,” 'Eommy explained with 
some degree of patience. 

“What wire?” Sue Ellen asked un¬ 

“'Ehe wire the storm blew down. 
Come on, I’ll show you.” 

J'ommy took her hand and led her 
around to the other side of the house. 
He stopped abruptly by the back porch 
and held out his arm. 

“Don’t go any further,” he whis¬ 

“Whv?” she asked softly, her glance 
darting about the yard. 

“Because the electricity is still com¬ 
ing out of the wire. See, there’s the 
wire near the big tree.” 

Sue Ellen studied the wire a mo¬ 
ment. “I don’t see any.” 

“Oh, you can’t see it. A'ou just feel 
it when you step on it.” 

She w'atched the wire which was 
still moving hack and forth in the 

“W'hen’s he coming?” 

“He’ll be here soon,” 'Eommv an¬ 
swered, his voice still lowered in a tone 
of mystery. 

He remembered a Earzan movie he 
had seen one Saturday afternoon, and 
thought how wonderful it would be if 
the man who was cominir to fix the 

wire would appear swinging on a rope 
from pede to pole up the block, and 
like 'Earzan, yelling as loud as he 

'Ehe back door opened, and Mrs. 
Blackstone came out carrying the break¬ 
fast garbage wrapped in a newspaper. 

“Eommy,” she said, “remember 
what I told you. Don’t you or Sue 
Ellen go near that wire.” 

Sue Ellen looked at .Mrs. Black¬ 
stone wide-eyed. “When’s he com¬ 
ing? ” 

“She means the man w'ho’ll fix it,” 
'Eommt’ addeil quickly. 

“He’ll be here soon.” 

.Mrs. Blackstone put the package in 
the trash can by the back porch and 
went hack into the house. 

“Isn’t your .Mama going to watch, 
too?” Sue Ellen asked, turning to 

“I suppose so. She called him and 
told him to do it.” 

'Eommy, followed closely by Sue 
Ellen, walked to the bench beside the 
garage in the back yard and sat down. 
Sue Ellen stood in front of him and 
looked at him cpiestioningly. 

“Will it hurt?” 

'Eomm\ sighed and took a small box 
of butterscotch out of his pocket. 
((^oiititiurd oil rxf Prigr) 


THE ARCHIVE, May, 1947 


\ idimus venire de profu7ido aquaram hiffotamos fortiores quam sunt elefhanti. 

—Epistola Alexandri ad Aristotelem 

hippopotamuses, it is said 
wear their guts inside their head 
Infandum! shouted Aristotle 
reading this from Alexander, that rougish knave 
ho, Menander! 

bring me the specimen bottle, hippotanios amphibiiSy 

the one with the river horse in it 

ah, now, how does one begin it 

oh, yes, a mammal, come from Egypt 

where the doctors all agree 

next page, let me see, o yes 

where the doctors all agree 

he is a blackened bag of devils 

can float at different water levels 

has several humors more than man 

his height, at least, a double span 

and, bless me, I knew ’twas so 

this was written long ago, ah me 

when men were wise and time went slow 

the guts of a hippopotamus, liar! 

float beneath his spleen on a lake of fire 

14 March xxxxvii 

iu) davenport jr 

“Oh, I guess so. But he’s got to 
do it because now we have to make 
toast in the oven.” 

He bit off a piece of the sticky candy, 
then gave some to Sue Ellen, who 
chewed it noisily with her mouth open. 
Tomm)' sucked on the sweet taffy anti 
watched the piece of candy in Sue El¬ 
len’s mouth crumble, dissolve, and fi¬ 
nally disappear. She wiped her mouth 
with her green scarf and said, “Thank 
you very much.” 

Tommy, seeing a small truck drive 
up to the house and trying to keep the 
excitement out of his voice, said, “Here; 
he comes.” 

“Oh!” cried Sue Ellen, and Tom¬ 
my couldn’t tell if she were pleased 
or frightened. 

“We’d better watch from here.” 

Sue Ellen sat down beside him and 
pulled at her knee-length stockings. 

'Ehe repair man got out of the truck 
and walked up to the side of the house 
and looked at the wire. He carried at 
small metal box. 

“Why doesn’t he step on some ’lec- 
tricityi”’ whispered Sue Ellen. 

“Because he can see it. He’s the 
man who knows about it,” replied 
Tommy, sounding a little bored. 

“When does it happen.^” she asked. 

“Wait till he touches the wire.” 

They watched the man put his metal 
box down on the ground. 

“This seat’s wet,” whispered Sue] 

“Well, stand up,” answered Tommy, 
not taking his eyes off the man in the 
side yard. 

Just as he spoke, they heard the man 
gasp loudly and utter a brief, half- 
strangled yell. They both jumped up 
and took a few steps forward. Sue 
Ellen had grabbed Tommy’s hand. The 
man was hanging on to the wire with; 
one hand, his back to them. He was, 
on his knees and his body was shaking! 

Tommy began to laugh, quietly atj 
(Continued on Page 16) 


THE ARCHIVE, May, 1947 

A Visit From Marie 

Written And Illustrated By Guy Davenport 

Mrs Davis was shelling peas. It 
was a dull job, shelling peas, and Mrs 
Davis looked out the window while 
she was at it. The kitchen window 
was by Jefferson Street where a lot of 
negroes passed. And Mrs Davis liked 
to watch the negroes. Estelle Clinck- 
scales had just come by in yellow 
slacks. Mrs Davis would tell Mr 
Davis about Estelle. 

—^"ou should have saw Estelle 
Clinckscales tonight, she would say. 
She was dressed up fit to kill, I’m tell¬ 
ing you. She had on yellow pants and, 
boy, she was swishing her tail. She 

was goin’ up to Church Street. Es- 

‘ telle’s a good nigger. 

.Mr Davis would make no comment. 
! His wife wasn’t saying anything about 
1 food, the evening paper, or going to 
bed, so he wouldn’t listen. 

Mrs Davis looked out the window. 
^ Evening was coming on. Maggie Jere¬ 
miah passed by. 

—Very well thank you. Miss Davis, 
Maggie said. 

* —How do you do, .Maggie, said 

Mrs Davis. 

Maggie Jeremiah passed every day. 
^ Somehow or other her greeting with 
{ Mrs Davis was all mixed up. She 
knew it and Mrs Davis knew it. But 
any e.xplanation of the reversetl greet¬ 
ing got no farther than that. It was 
just so. Maggie was a good nigger, too. 
She beat her children unmercifullv. 
She had reduced one of her children to 
idiocy by severe beatings. But that’s 
the way niggers are. Thev are like 

There was a knock at the back door. 
Somebody pulled at the screen door 
and found it latched. 

—Just a minute, said Mrs Davis. 
She went to the back door. It was Marie 
.A.nderson. Marie was a tall negro, 
almost white. Mrs Davis had known 
her for years. Marie was in a white 
print dress, and Mrs Davis could smell 
the perfume she had on. 

—How you, .Miss Davis, said Ma¬ 

—Well I guess, said Mrs Davis. 
How’s your .Mamar I usually see her 
pass coming from .Mrs Todd’s, but I 
didn’t see her today. 

—She’s well. .Miss Davis, er. .Ma¬ 
rie .Anderson hesitated. 

—What is it? asked Mrs Davis. 

—^Miss Davis, kin I see you just 
a minute in private? 

^Why, yes. 'I'here’s nobody here. 
Mr Davis won’t come home for a while 

Marie came in and went with .\Irs 

Davis, d'hey took chairs in the bed¬ 

—What is it? asked .Mrs Davis. 

—Well, now, Marie said. Well, 
you see, it’s this-a-way. 

—I don’t know what you’re talk¬ 
ing about, said Mrs Davis. 

—Well, said Marie .Anderson, I 
got married this afternoon. 

.Mrs Davis smiled. .Marie went on. 

—.An’, .Miss Davis, I was won¬ 
derin’ if you would, if you would keep 
my money for me. 

—What in the world for? asked 
Mrs Davis. She was trying, but she 
couldn’t understand the situation. 

—Well, said Marie, I don’t want 
the money to be on me tonight. I don’t 
know the man I’se married so well. 

—Sure, said ,\lrs Davis, smiling. 

( Continued on Page 23) 

THE ARCHIVE, May, 1947 



It Li-.ld in the night air, ami 
a-' ti'- bus drew t(^ a stop in trnnt nt 
in, h hnin noticed it was all warm 

I steann inside. In the bus he 
!’■ -id a seat in the back, o\er the 
wht.i, and settled hack for tlie riile 
i\- r till bridge into Philadelphia. He 
wa> felling good inside, with that guilt\ 
exeitement and expectation he alua)s 
felt uhen he was on the loose. He 
couldn’t wait until he got to Philh. 

He ixot off the bus on Market Street 
below Cit\ Hall and walked north. 
Taxis were busy along the street; there 
was a holiday spirit about the people. 
New 'i’ear’s Eee was not yet here, but 
it was just ahead, and eyervone seemed 
to hate caught the mood already. 

He emerged on the other side of 
Cit\ Hall and again took up his trek 
along .Market Street. He hurried b\’ 
the mofie houses with their clusters of 
middle-agers around the cashiers’ booths. 
They’re all looking for escape, he re¬ 
flected. They w'ant to see movies of 
men like myself, they w’ant to feel the 
same emotions, hold the same hopes, 
touch the same temptations that I, 
Johnny Richards, of just the right age, 
23, am now experiencing. And how' 
much, he thought happily, would the 
old bo\s waiting in line with their 
wives i who would soon he sobbinii: 
heartily as Hette Davis—for the 1 OOth 
time—became illegally pregnant be¬ 
fore their very eyes), how much more 
W'iild those boys like to be walking 
along .Market Street with myself, free 
t>- enter any bar, pursue any street, turn 
any orner in search of pleasure, ex¬ 
ilement, glory. 

I he lights of the new “Click” 
nightclub interrupted his meditation. 
1 h: wa.: the fabuhjus club with the 

longest bar in the world. Drinks w'ere 
expensive, but he knew from long prac¬ 
tice you could nurse a I'ye and <jin”;er 
for twenty minutes if you just treated 
the bartender nicely. He went on up 
the stairs. 

It w’as still early in the night and 
the club was only half filled. He went 
along the length of the bar until he 
came to a spot directly opposite the 
stage and hoisted himself on to a va- 
cajit stool. 

'The bartender was in front of him. 
“Carstairs and ginger.” He always 
ordered rye when he was out on a 
night like this. In the more expen¬ 
sive bars, the difference ran between 
fifteen and twenty cents less than 
bourbon. And, with the ginger ale, it 
all tasted the same to him, anyway, 
d'he thought always reminded him of 
the wonderful fellow who claimed he 
could tell the difference between rye 
and bourbon by the sound the ice made 
against the glass. 

’The bartender came and set the y-lass 
before him. “Mix?” “Go ahead.” He 
watched the liquor spill over the ice, 
and then the bubbling ginger filling the 
glass. “Who’s the band tonight?” 
“Sherwood. Bobby Sherwood. They’re 
taking time out for a smoke right now.” 

He loosened his coat, and then sat 
forward, leaning on the bar, and 
stirring the drink with his swizzle 
stick. When he had stirred it com¬ 
pletely, he placed the cool stick in his 
mouth and sucked it, thoughtfully, 
clicking it against his teeth. He let the 
drink rest for a moment. 

Suddenly there was activity on the 
stage in front of him. Members of 
the band were straggling in, finding 

their seats, hurling a few defiant, dis¬ 
cordant Jiotes into the murmur of the 

The noise bothered him, and he 
picked up the glass and sipped slowly 
at the contents. The taste of the drink 
brought back immediately the old fa¬ 
miliar sensation so that he was sud¬ 
denly in a place where he had been 
many years ago, in any place where he 
had ever been, drinking this drink, this 
rye, this nectar. 

“Drink the drink, I pray you. 

As I will drink it with you, 
Drippingly on the tongue.” 

Oh, it was wonderful to be educated, 
wasn’t it. To know the lines of Ham¬ 
let well enough to ruin them to fit any 
occasion. And wasn’t it great to be 
still a college boy. At an age when 
most men were married and winning 


their daily bread, to be still a college 
hoy. Wasn’t that great now. 

His had been such a mixed-up, dis¬ 
rupted life, thrown out of joint by a 
war he had not yet forgotten. He won¬ 
dered how all the boys were, the boys 
and men and older men that he had 
met and lived with so closely during 
those long years. He wondered if 
Hank, the P'irst Lieutenant on his ship, 
had ever gotten to Law School. And 
how was Keller, the Engineering Offi¬ 
cer, making out with that girl he had 
married in San Francisco? And how 
were all the others? Had they for¬ 
gotten him already? 

The things they had done, the lib¬ 
erties they had shared in those last few 
frantic days in the States before go- 
(Continued on Page 17) 

Out of the Stream of Sen¬ 
iors Leaving Duke This June, 
Rightful Forty-Seveners and 
Those a Little Belated, We, 
THE New Staff, Chose Ginny 
Gunn for Special Commenda¬ 
tion IN Recognition of Her 
Splendid Editorship of the 
1946-47 Archive. 


THE ARCHIVE, May, 1947 


“A bite for your thoughts,” she said^ 
holding towards him a spoon that was* 
lumped with ice cream. ? 

He smiled as an apology. 

Not that something new or different',, 
had occurred to resolve his thoughts,, 
but the sum of little happenings finally 
had become great enough to determine, 
a conclusion. This sequence, he sup- . 
posed, was as much his fault—if any¬ 
one were to blame—as hers; for the 
combination of their personalities al- > 
ways produced the same results. A date 
invariably meant a show, a stop at Doc’s 
drug store for a sundae, some forced 
conversation during the walk home, a . 
good-night kiss that had become little 
more than convention but that was still 
almost awkward, and the making of 
another date. 

“Nothing special, I guess. Besides,”, 
he said, nodding at the offered spoon, 
“that’s mine anyway, you know.” 

He never ate all of his sundae, and ' 
she always obligingly finished it for 

“So it is,” she admitted, and swal¬ 
lowed it. “But,” she added, “it was 
the last bite.” 

“Care for another? Maybe we 
could have one made up in a punchbowl 
or something.” 

“Now I’m not quite that bad, am I?”S 

“Well,” he answered, looking at 5 
the two empty sundae glasses and 
laughing, “don’t ask me that question 
during a weak moment.” 

I'he juke box stopped, and its swirl 
ing colored lights went out. The bois-j 
terous conversation in the drug store 
began to lower in volume as if it de 
pended upon the music for stimulation. 
Then a couple got up from one of the 
booths and made some new selections, 

THE ARCHIVE, May, 1947 

For The 


J'he music started again, aiul so did 
the talking. 

“Shall we go.?” he asketl. 

“I guess we might as well,” she an¬ 
swered, looking around. “They’ll close 
in a half hour anyway.” 

'J'hey slid from the booth, and he 
followed her as they walked down the 
aisle between the fountain and the 
booths. He noticed how pretty her 
legs were. In fact, he thought, she was 
probably one of the most beautiful 
girls he had seen in his two years in 
High School. But no matter how 
beautiful a girl is, you just can’t go 
with her for five months, feeling all 
the time that she’s still almost a 
stranger to you, and not want to do 
something about it. And somehow she 
always managed to thwart any attempt 
of his to remedy the situation. He kept 
comparing her to another girl, and he 
remembered how natural and easy that 
former companionship had been. There 
was no doubt about it, he concluded 
to himself, he must stop dating her. 

A voice yelled loudly and jestingly 
at him from one of the booths. 

“Say, who you got there, boy.?” 

‘A'eah,” another called, “watch that 
stuff—and don’t do anything I would¬ 
n’t do! ” 

I hey all laughed. It was a big joke. 
As old and as trite as it was, it was still 
a big joke. He w.aved back at them 
and half smiled, trying to show that 
he appreciated their humor. 

I he screen door twanged as lie 
pulled it open. She went out, and he 
tol lowed. 

d'he clamor and music grew faint 
in the distance, and in the still and (juiet 
night air his ears felt numb from all 


the laughing and giggling and teasing 
in the drug store. They tingled, he 
thought, almost as did his feet after 
he had been roller skating for a long 

“Do your ears ring a little bit?” he 

“No,” she answered. “From what?” 

“From all that noise in Doc’s.” 

“Oh . . . no.” 

He didn’t take her hand as usual. 
Instead he shoved his hands into his 
pockets. He remembered how his 
mother told him not to do that because 
it made him look slightly bent over 
when he walked, but at the moment 
he was thinking less about his appear¬ 
ance and more about not taking her 

“Just a little chillv out tonight, isn’t 
it.?” he said as they turned the corner 
onto the street where she lived. 

He knew that he had said that as a 
half excuse f(jr putting his hands into 
his pockets, but it only seemed to in¬ 
crease his awareness of the fact. 

“I hadn’t noticed it,” she countered. 
“I think it’s nice.” 

He had expected her to sac that. If 
she bail agreed, it would have surprised 
him. ’Fhe temperature wasn’t impor¬ 
tant. W^hat was important was the 
fact that she hadn’t accepted his opin¬ 
ion without adverse comment, without 
changing it in some way herself. Well, 
he remembered, this was the last night 

I'hey walked on in silence tor a few 
moments, the only sound being the un¬ 
even rh\thm of their footsteps along 

Illustrated By Bob Parks 

“Don’t do anything I 
wouldn’t do” was a stock 
phrase, l)ut it seemed espe¬ 
cially ironical to him in his 

the deserted side street. Somehow, he 
thought, she had the knack of making 
the silence appear to be his fault. 

“Got much studying to do for to¬ 
morrow?” he finally asked. 

“No, not too much, I guess . . . 

“Oh, just wondering.” He paused, 
feeling as if things were more up in 
the air than before. d'hen he said, 
“You really ought to go right to bed 
the minute you get home, you know.” 

She seemed amused and yet puzzled. 

“Now why in the world should I do 

“Well, so you won’t have so much 
trouble getting up in the morning, of 
course, d'hen }ou won’t be late ever\' 
time I stop by for \()u on the way to 

It was a little game they played, 
this chiding of each other. 

“Just because I was a little late this 
morning,” she defendetl, “doesn’t mean 
I can’t get up. Besiiles, I’m always 
on time an)'wa)’. I su[)pose you get 
u[i at five thirty or something.” 

“Right on the nose,” he said. 

‘A’es, I’ll bet . . . But realh’, I get 
up at seven o’clock ever^■ morning.” 

“Except this morning,” he reminded 

‘A cs, well I forgot to |iull out the 


“Well, don’t you believe me.''” 

“()h, sure, sure . . .” 

“Well, I did,” she asserted. 

“Did wh.'it.? Believe \()urself?” 

“Oh, \()U know what I mean.” 

She threw her arm in an explanator\ 
((^ofittunrd on Page 19) 

THE ARCHIVE, May, 1947 



I - tr..'■.'v’.' V t>»(i Othrr Stories by 
Riiv.ini.tnd Lihmann, Reiiial and 
H'tclicock, New ^'ork, December, 
'1^2 pa^es, $2.50. 

Reviewed by Jeff Frederick 

Ru'.imond Leliniann's writing has al- 
ua\s been an enigma to reviewers. In- 
di -d, her writing defies orthodox re- 
\iewing. Miss Lehmann is probabh' the 
most seiisitiie and certainh the most 
original of contemporary British writ¬ 
ers—her prose almost never being com¬ 
pared with that of other authors. Even 
the critic of the sedate \ eiv York 
I intt's who reviewed I'he Gipsy’s Bahy 
at the beginning of this tear, after mak¬ 
ing a serious attempt to bring forth the 
minor daws of .Miss Lehmann’s au- 
tho.-ship, finallv admitted matter-of- 
facth that he is in love with her writ¬ 
ing. This critic’s difficulty is easy to 
detect for amone who feels the same 
wa\ about the Britisher’s work as he 
does. Like a great musical symphony, 
her work has certain flaw's; but the 
reader can but w'onder wffiether by 
removing these technical faults, the 
sweeping beauty of the .symphony as a 
whole will not be affected detrimen¬ 
tal 1\. .Miss Lehmann’s writing is a 
symphony of literary form. It also has 
;• message—presented with deftly han¬ 
dled subtlety, to be sure—but, never¬ 
theless, a very definite message to which 
nc.. two readers will react in the same 

It one were to ask some people, who 
ha'.e read .Miss Lehmann’s greatest 
novel / he Halad and the Source^ for 
their opinion of the complex character 
-it Sybil Jardine, there would be an 
mazing variety of answers. This is 

It sh(.-uld be. It would be strange, 
indeed, if evert one viewed .Martin 

Luther, Edward Windsor, or Marlene 
Dietrich in the same light, ^’et, some 
critics highly those w'riters w'ho 
ilepict personalities in a way so that 
all competent readers will judge them 
similarly. I'heir portrayals are .said to 
be “lucid” or “clearly presented.” Pos¬ 
sibly, but Rosamond Lehmann’s gen¬ 
ius is of a different sort. Nothing about 
her writing is “simple” or “easily in¬ 
terpreted.” It is exceedingly complex 
and those who expect the author to do 
all of their thinking for them had bet¬ 
ter stay clear of Miss Lehmann’s 
novels. Her w.irk is not for the lazy 

reader; rather, it is intended for those 
who enjoy reading prose whose every 
word is selected with infinite care in 
order to set up a pattern of mental stim¬ 
ulation, the maturity of the response to 
which will be dependent upon the read¬ 
er’s ability and effort to judge the rela¬ 
tive significance of every component of 
the pattern. It is irrelevant whether 
or not the work carries the same sig¬ 
nificance to the reader as it did to the 
author. It is important that the reader 
to his own satisfaction has fit the com¬ 
ponents into the whole in such a man¬ 
ner as to make the work’s substance and 
effect manifest to him. Miss Lehmann 
has done her part so effectively that 
there are already harbingers of the imi¬ 
tations and adaptations of her writing 
which the future will undoubtedly pro¬ 
duce in even greater numbers. As long 

as mental exercise is a favorite sport 
of as many as it is today, Rosamond 
Lehmann’s work will be in constant 
and increasing demand. 

It is very likely that the release of 
The Gipsy’s Bahy at the turn of the 
year by Reynal and Hitchcock was 
missed by many devotees of her writ¬ 
ing. Two of her novels have been 
republished this year, but those who re¬ 
member that it took Miss Lehmann 
eight years to write her most recent 
novel, 250-page The Ballad and the 
Source, will welcome this collection of 
five short stories as very possibly the 
last new Lehmann writing for all too 
many years to come. 

With conservativeness typical of one 
of the most highly respected publishing 
houses in New York, the release of this 
book was accompanied by no fanfare. 

It is not very difficult to conjecture how ' 
certain publishers would have heralded 
the publication of a new book by an ; 
author—the last four out of five of ' 
whose novels were book-club choices. ! 
All of the stories from The Gipsy’s ' 
Bahy were published in recent years in 
England in New Writing and two were 
published in that favorite of the Park 
Avenue set, Town and Country; they 
have not been published elsewhere. 

Four out of five of these stories 
possibly do not quite have the stature 
of The Ballad and the Source. They 
also did not take eight years to write. 
All of them carry the imprint of Miss 
Lehmann’s painstaking artistry. The 
title story is an attack on the English 
class consciousness, although in the typi¬ 
cal Lehmann manner, this is neither 
mentioned nor directly alluded to. 
Every reader will pity the family down 
the lane and will be conscious of the 


THE ARCHIVE, May, 1947 

tact that Miss Lehmann docs not write 
of an isolated instance. “'Die Red- 
Haired .Miss Daintreys” gives the reader 
an insight into that which inspires the 
author’s writing. I dare saj' there will 
be several surprises for those who feel 
they know the source from which 
springs such genius. “When the Waters 
Came” is a description of the coming of 
the thaw in England after the first 
winter of the last war. 'Ehe striking 
relationship between the drowning of a 
chicken in the resultant flood as seen by 
a child and the tleath of Britisli seamen 
on the high seas as a result of war as 
seen by a nation is told by this master 
of contrast. “Wonderful Holidays” is 
about children at play in war-torn Eng¬ 
land. Anyone who has read any of 
Miss Lehmann’s books knows that in 
the depiction of children, she has few 
peers and certainly no master. 

“A Dream of Winter” wliich con¬ 
cerns bees and honey and people and 
one tiny bird is the finest of the group. 
Like all of Miss Lehmann’s writing, 
this story is highly integrated; and does 
not lend itself to being quoted. How¬ 
ever, this excerpt—in which the dispos¬ 
sessed bees express their reaction to the 
disappointment of the mistress of the 
liouse at finding the honeycomb dry 
after the bee man had “taken the 
swarm” buried in the wall of her coun¬ 
try house—is a noteworthy exception. 
'Elie inner significance of this quota¬ 
tion I leave to the reader to ilecipher 
(Page 106.): 

“Wc work for you. Our surplus is 
yours, there for the taking—vanished! 
^’ou left it to accumulate, thinking; 
'Ehere’s time; thinking; when I will. 

^’ou left it too late. What you took 
for the hum of growth and plenty is 
nothing, you see, but the buzz of an 
outworn machine running down. 'Ehe 
workers haye eaten up their fruits, there 
is nothing left for you. It’s no use this 
time, my girl! Supplies are getting 
scarce for people like you. An end, 
soon, of getting more than their fair 
share for dwellers in country houses. 
Ripe gifts unearned out of traditional 
walls, no more. .All the while your 
roof was being sealetl up patiently, cun¬ 
ningly, with spreading plasters and 
waxy shrouds.” 

“A Dream of Winter” is Rosamoml 
Lehmann at her best; no finer compli¬ 
ment could be paid any story. 

For the Best 

Shoe Repairing 

Service in Town 

Stop at 

Louis Sher, Mgr. Class of ’33 
Bus Stop at Five Points 

THE ARCHIVE. May, 1947 


Each month a 
box of Life Sav¬ 
ers is given to 
the person con¬ 
tributing the 
best joke of the 




Are you a 

Kednes dilos* 


Mother (on entering 
room :■ : Well. I never! 

Daughter; But, 
mother, you must have! 

Submitted by: 

—Marcia Norcross 

Do you win the gals with your smooth line— 
then lose ’em with your rough breath? Cheer up, 
chum! You can be a super solid sender. Just get 
hep to luscious Life Savers. Those dandy, handy 
candies keep your breath so-o-o fresh! 

^ “Solid Sender” backwards 

—Common Day— 

‘ Continued from Page 8) 
first. “He’s just like a clown I saw 
once! ” 

•And Sue Ellen joined in with 
laughter. She began to jump up and 
down shouting, “Just like a clown! 
Just like a clown!” 

She was soon laughing almost hys¬ 
terically, but in a moment, though, she 
wailed, “.Make him stop. Tommy, it 
isn’t tunny any more.” 

She began to cry, but Tommy was 
laughing and failed to notice that Sue 
Ellen was pulling on his arm and 
pleading with him. 

“.Make him stop, 'I'cjmmy!” 

“He’s really going to do it! I told 
o! I knew it!” 

Suddenly the back door opened and 
■Mrs. Elackstone ran out. 

“WTat are you twrj—” And she 

e;w the man. 

“Look, Mama, just like the clown 
we saw last summer!” Tommy yelled. 

But she ignored him. All her at¬ 
tention was focused on the jerking 
figure that seemed cemented to the 
wire. With a slight scream she rushed 
back in the house. Tommy continued 
to laugh and dance about the yard, 
pulling with him Sue Ellen who now 
gave vent to loud, uncontrolled sobs. 

In a few short moments, Mrs. Black- 
stone returned, yelling, “I’ve just called 
them and told them to shut off the 

“Mama,” Tommy continued to cry, 
“just like the clown we saw!” 

Then she noticed the children. 
“Tommy, what are you laughing atP 
Stop it! ” 

She rushed across the yard and 
grabbed his shoulder with one hand and 
with the other slapped him across the 
face. Tommy backed away in amaze¬ 

“Shame on you! Can’t you see that 
man may be dying?” 

Sue Ellen, now freed from Tom- | 
my’s grasp, ran around to the other 
side of the house and home, shoutinsr 

•' O 

for her mother. 

T'ommy, bewildered, looked at his 
mother and saw that her eyes were blaz¬ 
ing with anger. He put his hand over 
the spot where she had hit him. 

“Tommy, why didn’t you come in 
and tell me.?” 

As she spoke, she shook him, and he 
began to cry. 

“You march right up to your room, 
young man. Shame on you!” 

Turning and walking slowly to the 
back door, Tommy saw the man let go 
of the wire and roll over. He watched 
for a minute, and when the man 
didn’t move or get up, he rushed, ter¬ 
rified, into the house and up to his 

For a while he sat on the edge of 
the bed trembling and half-crying. 
Then he jumped up and ran to the mir¬ 
ror above his dresser in order to ex- '> 
amine his face. He was sure that he 
could see the mark where his mother 
had struck him, and he began to cry 
much louder. 

When the ambulance drove up, ; 
Tommy moved to the window which j 
faced the road at the front of the 
house and he watched quietly. Two 
men got out of the ambulance and in ; 
a short time were carrying the repair ; 
man on a stretcher to the vehicle. He 
saw his mother and several neighbors 
following the injured man. Noiselessly 
he opened the window and knelt down 
with one ear close to the opening. 

“My little Sue Ellen,” he could hear 
Sue Ellen’s mother saying, “is simply 
a nervous wreck. Why, her eyes looked 
like they were going to bulge right 
out! ” 

“If she’s really in such a state, do 
you think she should be left alone?” 
asked Mrs. Blackstone. 

As the ambulance drove off. Tommy 

THE ARCHIVE, May, 1947 






IS on 










rsmiiiio CO. 

124 W. Parrish 

sat down, blew his nose and began to 
look at the book on the table beside 
his bed. He wondered if his mother 
would spank him. 

He could feel his eyes filling with 
tears when he heard her walking up 
the stairs. She opened his door slowly 
and seeing her face, he knew that she 
did not intend to punish him. 

“Tommy, dear,” she began, “I’m 
sorry Mommy hit you. But I was so 
frightened when I saw what had hap¬ 
pened. And you were a naughty hoy 
to laugh at the poor man.” 

Then she moved quickly across the 
room and took Tommy in her arms. 
She was half-sobbing. 

“I know that you didn’t understand, 
'Fommy. And Mommy’s sorry. But 
you must always tell Mommy right 
away when something happens that you 
don’t understand.” 

She was pushing his hair back from 
his forehead and looking into his eyes. 
Tommy had ceased crying altogether 
and now stared hack at her. He knew 
that she was going to kiss him. Al¬ 
most imperceptibly he drew back his 
head. The eyes that stared into his 
belonged to a stranger. 


—Past Tense— 

(Continued from Page 10) 

ing over, and all those long, long 
months of never-ending boredom, 
never-to-cnd barrenness punctuated only 
by a rare and necessary drunk on Guam 
or Saipan or Ulithi. 

These things he had not forgotten, 
nor the days off Okinawa when they 
brought the wounded men by small 
boat to his LSI'. So that on rough 
and windy days, when they could not 
lower the ramp, they had been forced 
to take the men in wire baskets aboard 
by crane, the boat plunging up and 
down beside the ship, so that even the 
act of fastening the hook to the basket 
became a dangerous one. .And who 

THE ARCHIVE, May, 1947 


"What does it mean when you dream yoidre downtown 
in just your Artemis Jr. slip . . . afid mou LOVE it?” 

Designer-opproved Artemis’ Jr. slips are exclusive at 

U. S. Por. Off. Pol. No. 2396117 • Copyright 1945 Weil*KaIfer Mfg. 

cmild t'iiriret the sight of the wounded 
in baskets, being lifted high over the 
sea, up, up, up and twisting lazily in 
the wind and then around and down 
through the cargo hatch onto the tank 

One time they had a hundred 
wounded men in cots along that tank 
deck. '\ he doctors worked in shifts 
all night, amputating, digging shrap¬ 
nel and metal out of muscle and bone, 
cleaning up the wounds before sending 
th em onto the hospital ships farther 
out. I he f)nes that didn’t make it were 
taken to the rear with a blanket placed 
lightly over their face to rest until 
that strong I-els Naptha smell would 
spread throughout the ship the sense 
and fei I and fear of death. 

'That wa, all over now, and all of 
the day at ,ea, and he wondered how 
]‘>n'a it would be before the whole thinir 
would blur and become blank, dwindle 

and become a void, an absence, a three- 
years’ leave from Time. 

“How about it, budp” He looked 
up to see the bartender standing before 
him, bottle in hand. 

“OK, one more I guess. How many 
have I had?” 

“I don’t count ’em, brother. I just 
pour ’em.” 

The band was blaring away directly 
in front of him, and he watched the 
dancers swaying before him in various 
moods and attitudes. He didn’t know 
how many drinks he had had, but he 
was feeling warm and excited inside, 
and when he felt this way, he liked to 
watch the girls dance, noticing the lit¬ 
tle movements they made, sizing each 
one up as a possible date, a potential 

He paid for the drinks, got up off 
the stool, and made his way a trifle 
unsteadily to the stairway. He winked 

at the checkroom girl w'ho was a little 
.sore because he hadn’t checked his coat. 
'Fhen he walked on down the stairs 
and out the door. 

Outside it was cold again; the wind 
came shiveringly through the openings 
in his coat, sobering him up somewhat, 
and as he turned up 1 6th street toward 
the nightclub district, his mind was 
clearing. Walking, with his head 
down into the wind, staying in the lee 
of the buildings, he thought: All the 
strange years have passed, all the glory, 
drama, and wandering are gone—as of 
a match—in one bright flare, leaving 
us alone and desolate in the vast, un¬ 
peopled night, casting us wearied and 
unready upon the shores of civilization. 
And whither shall we go? 

The lights of a little club off Chest¬ 
nut street, a hangout for sailors and 
traveling girls, lured him inside. He 
stayed at the bar there for a long time, 
standing, and drinking shot after shot. 
Afterward, when he was feeling very 
high, he got in with a Bos’n’s Mate 
who was sitting with two girls. The 
Bos’n’s Mate had all his front teeth 
knocked out; he kept talking about the 
fights he had been in and would be in 
again later in the night, but Johnny 
kept him pacified long enough to get 
one of the girls away the second time 
he left the booth. The girl was happy- 
drunk, with a vanishing cream com¬ 
plexion that made him only slightly 
sick, and he finally flagged a cab and 
got her in. Inside the cab he got right 
to work, but she kept insisting that 
she had to make a train to Allentown, 
her head lolling drunkenly back and 
forth on the seat cushion. She was so 
nearly out he finally said to hell with 
it and told the cabbie to take them 
right to Reading Terminal. There he 
dragged her out, feeling sore, and 
watched her sway unsteadily into the 
building and up the stairs. 

When he turned to pay the fare, the 
cabbie was laughing at him. 



THE ARCHIVE, May, 1947 


( Continued from Page 13) 
gesture, and he imitated her action. 
Using her hands to talk was a hahit of 

“All right,” she said, and acknowl¬ 
edged her defeat by dropping the dis¬ 

Don’t do anything / ivouldn’t do. 
He remembered the unintentional irony 
in the remarks made back at the drug 
store and, embarrassed, blew a short 
sniff of air out his nose. He realized, 
and not without chagrin, that he was 
coming to the point where he almost 
welcomed an argument. At least it 
kept the conversation going. 

Casually, almost absently, she reached 
up and rubbed the side of her nose and 
then let her hand fall again. He noticed 
her motion and laughed softl)' but 
pointedly, perhaps more from the relief 
of finding an opening for conversation 
than anything else. 

“You know what that means, don’t 
}'ou?” he asked. 

She seemed to have been thinking 
about something else and didn’t under¬ 
stand. At least she pretended that she 

“What means?” 

“Rubbing your nose like that,” he 

“It doesn’t mean anything, does it?” 

“Oh, yes it does,” he affirmed. “\’ou 
sure }’ou don’t know?” 

“No, I don’t . . . really.” 

“Well,” he said, sighing as if there 

were nothing anyone could do about 
it, “they say it means you’re going to 
kiss a fool.” 

He understood the full implication 
of what he had said almost immedi¬ 
ately. And so did she. She raised 
her hand in his direction and slowl\' 
nodded her head. 

“A fool, I believe you said?” she 
tpiestioned with a triumphant smile. 

d'here was nothing he could say to 
that. She had him, and now they were 

But from far back in his mind, con¬ 
sciously unasked for, an answer sug¬ 
gested itself. The solution was really 
simple, he thought, and it fitted so well 
into the sitaution. No more dates. No 
good-night kiss. Perhaps that was the 
best way, he decided, just end every¬ 
thing all at once. 

He began looking around, tr\ing to 
find a new tpoic for conversation. A 
little do<i sittinj; all alone under the 
street light ahead of them attracted his 
attention. In some way, he thought, 
the dog seemed overly important as he 
surveyed the dimly lit, blank-faced 

“See that dog?” he suddenly asked. 

“Where? Oh, yes . . . W'^hat about 

“I woiuler what he’s thinking 

“Thinking about?” she asked with 
forced perplexity. “Dogs don’t think.” 

“What do you mean, don’t think? 
Of course they think.” 

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THE ARCHIVE, May, 1947 













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THE ARCHIVE, May, 1947 

“Oh, I don’t mean that they don’t 
understand certain things,” she argued, 
i throwing her hand in the air to help 
I explain herself. “I mean they don’t 
I ... well, they don’t contemplate. I 

I guess that’s the right word.” 

He swung his arm, imitating her 
again; and she, understanding his ac¬ 
tion, clasped her hands back of her. 

“You don’t think he’s just sitting 
there doing nothing, do your” he went 

“Well,” she said, “I really doubt if 
he’s thinking about things—I mean 

They walked on a few steps in si¬ 

“You’ve seen a dog dreaming, have¬ 
n’t you.?” he asked, trj'ing a new' ap¬ 
proach. “Well, if they can dream, 
they certainly can think—or contem¬ 
plate, as you put it. I mean every¬ 
body who thinks, dreams . . . and vice 



“I don’t,” she said firmly. 

“^'ou don’t what? Dream?” he 
asked dubiously. 


“But everybody dreams—it’s a scien¬ 
tific fact. '\'ou just don’t remember 
them, that’s all.” 

“But I don’t dream at all,” she re¬ 
peated. “I’d know if 1 dreamed or 

He didn’t answer. There was no 
use continuing. On previous evenings 
these little conflicts had made him all 


tense inside and had depressed him be- 
; cause he could find no relief. Now', 

; however, he didn’t care, and he was 
amazed at his sudden lack of concern. 
But when he started to whistle, he be¬ 
gan to wonder whether it was from re¬ 
lief or whether it w'as to help cover a 
now-growing feeling of an.xiety. 

There was her house, a big yellow 
thing surrounded by tall, uneven bushes 
that needed trimming. 'Fhe w’alk was 
bordered by another hedge about three 
feet high. The porch light was on. 
They stopped, and she stepped back 

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THE ARCHIVE, May, 1947 



The University Dining Halls 

Telephones L-961—N-135 


into her walk a few paces. He didn’t 
follow her as usual but stood at the edsre 
of the bushes. The porch light shone 
full on his face, and he felt as if he 
were in a spotlight; but her face was 
hidden in shadow. His thoughts raced 
in aimless confusion like swirling 
leaves, and he couldn’t think of any¬ 
thing to say. And now, of all times, he 
needed to say something, to do some¬ 
thing. He began to pick the little 
leaves from the hedge and to tear them 
into small bits, smelling intermittently 
the fresh scent of the broken edges. 

He felt the impulse shoot through 
his body to walk away, but he didn’t. 
It was a singular and exciting sensation 
to come that close to doing something 
and then not do it—almost as if he 
had caught himself just before falling 
over a cliff. 

But he wasn’t able to stop the next 
impulse. It was spontaneous, and the 
words were out before he knew that 
he was saying them. 

“How about the show next Satur¬ 
day night.i”’ 

Instantly he felt as if his blood 
had become carbonated, and a cold 
pocket of air settled over him. 

“Saturday.^” she repeated. 

“Yes,” he answered. “I don’t know 
what’s on.” 

He finished lamely, a sinking feel¬ 
ing growing in him. 

“I don’t either,” she said uncon¬ 

“Well, we can go and see,” he of¬ 

“All right.” 

“About what time.i”’ he asked, try¬ 
ing to be matter of fact. 

“Same time, I guess . . . Around 
seven thirty.” 

“Well, good night,” he said as non¬ 
chalantly as he could. 

She only nodded her head, and he 
knew that she was trying desperatel)' 
to understand what was happening. 

He turned quickly and shuddered as 
he imagined her eyes boring into his 


THE ARCHIVE, May, 1947 




<JMontgomery 's 

Opposite Washington Duke 

Phone R-161 

back, and an unwelcome fantasy of 
what she must be thinking swirled 
through his mind. 

As he hurried away, he slammed his 
fist into his palm with a smack. 

“Damn,” he said. 


—A Visit— 

{ Continued from Pngc 9) 

Sure, I’ll keep it. If you can’t trust 
people, you can’t trust ’em. 

—Ain’t it the truth? said .Marie. 
She reached into her bosom and brought 
up a roll of bills. She gave them to 
.Mrs Davis. 

—It couldn’t be in better hands, 
said Mrs Davis. 

—No’m, said Marie. Not in the 
leas’. She got up to go. Mrs Davis 
put the money in her own bosom. They 
went out on the back porch. 

—Well, said Mrs Davis, I hope 
you’ve married a good man. 

—Yes’m, I has. Marie worked the 
toe of her shoe around. 

—What’s his name? asked Mrs 

Marie Anderson worked her toe 
again. She smiled in embarrassment 
at .Vlrs Davis. 'I'lien she thought hard. 
Finally .she spoke. 

—I’d d’clare ef’n I knows. 

—Well, said IVIrs Davis, find out 
and let me know. .And I’ll keep your 
money safe. 

—Yes’m, said .Marie, and walked 

.Mrs Davis latched the .screen door 
and went back to shelling peas. She 
would tell Mr Davis that Marie .An¬ 
derson had married a man and didn’t 
even know his name. Hut .Mr Davis 
wouldn’t listen. It would have noth¬ 
ing to do with eating, the evening 
paper, or going to bed. 



( Contifiued from Page 2) 

ENGLAND . . . 

.Almost everyone is aware of the con¬ 
flict of opinion concerning English and 
.American motion pictures. Well, the 
same feelings, as would be supposed, are 
carried into the realms of literature. 

It is interesting to read English re¬ 
views of .American books. The Times 
Literary Supplement (London) re¬ 
viewed Saroyan’s The Adventures of 
Wesley Jackson (London, I'aber & 
Faber) in cpiite a different manner 
from that of similar U. S. publica¬ 
tions. Hurrying over the stock criti¬ 
cisms about Saroyan’s sentimentalitv 

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THE ARCHIVE, May, 1947 


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and “beautiful people,” the review 
went on to say that . . all is ex¬ 
plained to every one’s satisfaction,” aiid 
that it was “most entertaining.” 

In this country. The A. of W. J. 
was labeled “spite” writing, and only 
Saroyan’s name demanded that it be 
reviewed. But remember, dear reader, 
those long, glowing accounts of Lon¬ 
don and how it was made out to be 
the best city in the world.? 

In the same publication, Mary Wil¬ 
son Ross’s The Left Hand Is the 
Dreamer received a thorough going- 
over. Here in America Miss Ross’s 
book drew as many compliments as it 
did reviews—which was quite a few. 
It is certainly considered to be one of 
the best of the season. 

But the British magazine saw it dif¬ 
ferently. Filled with phrases such as 
“unvarying note of conscious cultiva¬ 
tion, scattering the names of poets and 
painters” and “faint preciosity of fem¬ 
inine sentiment” to “immature cast of 
imagination,” the review very thor¬ 
oughly raked Miss Ross back and forth 
across the coals. The pay off came 
(and perhaps a reason, too, why the 
book was so treated) when it was 
summed up as a “somewhat demon¬ 
strative American novel.” 


Yale University Press is working 
hard, it seems, to put over Liddell Hart’s 
new book. The Revolution in War¬ 
fare. “Captain Hart’s thesis,” says 
Yale quite seriously, “is that total war 
was a mistake in the first place—the 
result of misinterpreting the work of 
Clausewitz—and the mistake has grown 
to proportions that threaten to destroy 
the world.” 


Bernard Clare, a newspaperman 
from Minneapolis, sued James T. Far¬ 
rell for using his name to title 
Farrell’s novel. It didn’t work . . . 
Kathleen Winsor is working on a suc¬ 
cessor to guess what . . . 



THE ARCHIVE, May, 1947 

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